


Brotherly Bargain

by xenobia4



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Fisting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Cutting, Dismemberment, Fisting, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Object Insertion, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stabbing, Torture, Waterboarding, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenobia4/pseuds/xenobia4
Summary: A violent drug cartel abducts Sherlock Holmes after two of their operations in the UK have been shutdown. They upload the videos of torture online, gaining the attention of both the British government and Mycroft.





	1. In Loving Misery

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thought I've had running in my head for a few years and, because I've no life, I finally decided to flesh it out. I've always had this idea that Mycroft manages to piss off the wrong group of people, so in retaliation, they go after his brother. 
> 
> Do tell me what you think and if you'd like this to be continued. (^ - ^)

**1**

**In Loving Misery**

“Are you going to sit there all day?” John Watson’s voice cut through the silence of 221B Baker Street. He stared with annoyance blatant on his features, to which his flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes, dutifully ignored. John pursed his lips, exhaling forcefully as he gave Sherlock the same look he always gave when the young genius was driving him mad.

When he left the flat that morning, Sherlock was lying in the same position on the couch, a book held firmly over his face with his eyes darting back-and-forth between words. Though John was certain Sherlock was holding a different book then.

“Isn’t there a new case or something?” he put emphasis on the last word, wanting to gain some sort of response. Yet, the only response he received was Sherlock’s nonchalant shrug.

“London is…quiet for the moment,” he said, his voice hinting aggravation.

John nodded, his eyes trailing around the room, which was in disarray, just as he left earlier that morning. It was only more evidence of Sherlock’s disdaining boredom.

“Right,” John drew own, his eyes falling back on Sherlock, who was turning ahead in whatever book he had buried his nose into. “And that doesn’t bother you in the least?”

“Quite the contrary,” was the immediate response, having John raise his brows in curiosity. “I am bored out of my _mind_.”

With the finished word, John gazed at him intently, but wound up rolling his eyes as Sherlock turned yet another page. “Well, then I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, and since you threw out my roast to house someone’s leg in the fridge—”

“It’s necessary for an experiment.”

“—I’m going to go out for a meal and you, Sherlock Holmes, are more than welcomed to join me.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to him for the first time since he came through the door, before quickly moving back to his book, which John just realized was on the American serial killer John Wayne Gacy. Before Sherlock could even voice it, John knew what the man was going to say. He was going to comment on—

“Clean-shaven, hair groomed with only a few hairs sticking out, shirt clean and ironed – You were preparing to meet that shop keep from last night, but she turned you down last minute. Now you’ve got a reservation for two at a restaurant you’ve been wanting to try, but no one to go with.” John sighed and, while anyone else’s interpretation would have been irritation, his was more-or-less of understanding with only a hint of annoyance, which he knew Sherlock picked up on. “How’s their tea?” Sherlock asked without prompting, causing John to chuckle.

“Better than what you serve.” Sherlock scoffed. “You’re coming, then,” he phrased with certainty, instead of a question.

“So incessant, John,” he said as he shut his book and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. “I could do with some nutrients, I suppose.”

Inwardly, John smiled.

He had not seen Sherlock eat the last week, so for the man to willingly go out to supper made him, in a way, feel fortunate. He doubted anyone else could have swayed Sherlock Holmes into doing what they wanted, but if living with the genius taught John anything, it was how to work around Sherlock’s quirks and to manipulate – to get him how to do what he wanted. While he was certain Sherlock knew what he was doing, he had yet to call him out on it, leading John to believe his opinion mattered.  

Within a few minutes, Sherlock was dressed to his normality, overcoat and scarf included, and he and John were out on the sidewalk, walking to the restaurant John had been so looking forward to.

The streets were fairly vacant and the streetlights already lit, casting shadows every which way. A couple was walking on the opposite side of the street, both obviously intoxicated, whereas they were both laughing obnoxiously as the two men could overhear them discussing past matters. The woman was latched onto her partner’s arm, doubling over and stumbling several times before they turned the corner. Even as the distance increased, they could still hear the couple’s laughter. There was a man talking hastily on his cell phone, walking towards the duo, paying them no attention as he was heard shouting at the person on the other end, who Sherlock concluded was his wife, judging by the tone and subject. He failed to notice the six-foot detective, bumping into him and offering no apology, instead flowing into a slew of curses to the woman over the phone.

John made a comment about the subject matter, which made them both chuckle, garnering an odd look from another man passing by.

Just as they turned the corner, a female bumped into both of their shoulders, her nose having been buried in her phone. She immediately fell into an apology, before her eyes trailed up to their faces. Her gaze fell on John first, and then darted over to Sherlock, when her eyes appeared to light up.

At the change in demeanour, Sherlock inadvertently rolled his eyes.

“Oh, my god. You’re Sherlock Holmes,” she said, entire face beaming. Her breath appeared to catch in her throat and she moved to look at John. “And you’re Doctor Watson. I follow all the cases on your blog, and I think you two are fabulous.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” John sputtered, indiscreetly knocking his shoulder into Sherlock, getting the detective to force a smile to the young woman.

The woman smiled, her face turning red. “Apologies. You two are out on a date and I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Before either man could respond, the woman scuttled off, knocking into both of them as she ran down the sidewalk. Sherlock was snickering, while John was trying to refrain from calling after her about not being in a relationship. John looked at him in disbelief, as though expecting some form of back-up. When Sherlock gave none, John pursed his lips in annoyance and began walking again, speeding up his pace in an attempt to put distance between them for the moment.

After making another right and walking the block to stand outside of the restaurant, he turned to see how far back his friend was, only to see he had not yet turned the corner. He waited another moment, but when Sherlock still failed to round the street, he released an aggravated sigh, his steps heavy in annoyance as he retraced his steps. When he turned onto the street, he expected to see Sherlock caught up in reading a flyer or something of the like; instead, he was introduced to his best mate leaning his back against a building, holding his head, appearing to sway.

He ran up to him, immediately placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, peering into his face.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

The younger man, whose eyes were closed, shook his head. “I’ve been drugged,” he said, his voice sounding distant,

John’s face was overcome with confusion. “What? How? By whom?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That woman, I think—” he was cut off, his head falling forward while his body began going limp.

John found himself supporting Sherlock’s full weight as he escorted the man to the ground, his back sliding down the building. Once on the ground, John grabbed Sherlock’s face, lightly slapping his cheek, making the genius’ eyes flutter open.

“Sherlock! Stay with me, come on.” Sherlock’s body fell forward, falling into his shoulder before he was able to say a word. Heart racing, he held his friend with one arm while pulling his cell phone from his pocket with the other. Yet, before he could dial, he felt a searing pain radiate through his head and neck, his vision going dark.

* * *

John awoke to a bright light shining in his eyes and a throbbing headache. Sally Donovan was leaning over him, shining a penlight into his eyes as she lifted his eyelid, looking for an apparent concussion. The doctor groaned, trying to roll his neck while Donovan kept his head in place. His entire head pounded, his frontal lobe aching with a dull pain, the light aiding in no comfort. Behind Donovan, he could see the blur of a blue lights from a police car. Her voice sound muffled and distant, but he was certain she was calling his name.

“John,” her voice finally pieced through the veil of haze. “Yeah, a minor one by the looks of it,” she responded to a question the doctor did not hear. His vision began coming into focus, the features of the detective filling his view. “Can you stand?” she asked, to which he groaned as he rolled to the side, nodding. She helped him to his feet, holding his arm as he stumbled.

His back hit the outside of the building and he placed his hands on his knees, inhaling while his head pulsed. Her hand was on his shoulder to help stabilize him.

“John, what happened?” came the familiar voice of Greg Lestrade.

Peering up, Lestrade was now standing in front of him, his face filled with concern. With a glance around, he realized there was more than one patrol car; there were four, along with an ambulance that had just turned onto the street.

His attention was drawn back to the inspector, his eyebrows knitting in confusion as he tried to piece together why he was awakened on the sidewalk with a torch. He shook his head. “I – I can’t remember.” He held his head, recalling walking down the stairs of 221B Baker Street with Sherlock in front of him.

Where were they going and why?

“How’d you know I was here?” He was hoping the answer would fill in to blanks.

“Someone called, saying they saw a dark van speeding off and an unconscious man on the ground,” Donovan responded. She waved over to the emergency medical responders, who were just getting out of the ambulance.

His head shot up to stare at her, a look of realization flooding his features.

Seeing the expression, Lestrade’s concern filled his speech. “What? What happened?”

As the medical personnel approached him, he tried to push them away, saying he was fine. “Sherlock.” He clamped his eyes shut, recalling the memory of seeing his friend’s failing state. “Where is he? Greg, Sherlock was with me. He was drugged – where is he?”

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged glances, the older man’s going into one of confusion and panic.

“Sherlock was with you?” he asked as if in confirmation, to which John nodded violently.

“I’m fine,” he yelled at the paramedic who was still trying to walk him over to the ambulance. When the young paramedic tried to protest, John cut him off. “I’m a doctor, it’s fine! It’s a minor concussion and I don’t need to go to the hospital to confirm that, now please stop touching me!”

The medic looked to Lestrade and Donovan for confirmation, rolling his eyes in aggravation when Lestrade nodded.

“Please tell me he’s with you,” John said, referring to Sherlock as his eyes darted between Lestrade and Donovan. When he saw their expressions, his entire body dropped. “We have to find him. There was a woman.” He fell into Donovan as his head swam, recalling the young woman who claimed to be a fan when she ran into them. He held his head and pulled back from her, wobbling slightly as he stood, regaining his sense of balance. “There was a woman who came up to us and I think she somehow managed to drug Sherlock,” he finally spoke coherently.

“What did she look like? We can put out an APB for anyone fitting her description.”

John tried to recall her appearance.

He remembered her red hair and freckled face, but could not remember her eye colour. She was slender and he knew she was eye-level with him, putting her height at about 170cm; she had been wearing a dress – a type of sun dress if he remembered correctly – but could not recall the pattern, if it even had one.

The description he gave was fairly vague, but it was the most he recalled and was able to give for the police to put a bulletin for anyone fitting her appearance.

It was not until the early hours of the morning when John returned to 221B Baker Street. He had waited at the police station for hours, hoping for a call to come in, fitting the female’s description; but when nothing came in, Lestrade convinced him to return home.

He understood.

Most people were home for the evening and would not pay attention to the news or any type of alert until the following morning. When he did return home, the thought of sleep had never crossed his mind, despite the heaviness tugging at his eyelids. Instead, he found his way to the kitchen, where he found himself making tea. He settled down in his usual spot, his laptop opened and phone turned on full volume, waiting to hear something from someone.

* * *

 

Creaking filled the room.

On the ceiling, a lone light hung down, drenching the cement walls in a low, orange light. The room held few items: what appeared to be a blood-soaked mattress sat in the far-right corner, which was butted against a set of pipes. A metal door at the South end of the windowless room was opened, leading into a dark hallway that seemed to curve in every which way. In the centre of the room was a loan wooden chair with steel d-rings bolted to the ground around it. Attached to the rings were chains, which were connected to shackles around the wrists and ankles of a young detective.

A deep groan escaped his throat, his eyes flittering open to see the orange light hanging directly above him. When he shifted, finding his hands chained behind the chair and his ankles chained to the floor, his realization seemed to come into perspective. He recalled going to a restaurant with John, only for his head and body to feel numb after John had disappeared from view. He saw the image of the young woman who claimed to be a fan before she ran off.

He shifted his hands, pulling at the chain and trying to find a weak point. The metal shackles dug into his wrists. When he tested those around his ankles, he realized he was barefooted, which prior experience told him was never a good start.

He clamped his eyes shut, allowing his head to roll to the front.

A sharp headache made itself apparent.

The sound of boots on concrete drew his attention to the door in front of him. Squinting, he looked up to see a shadowed figure walking down the hallway. Between the pounding headache and aftereffects of whatever he had been drugged with, his vision was blurred; so when the figure came to a stop inside the room, all he could see was the blurry silhouette of a man. He blinked a few times, trying to focus.

“Top o’ the morning!” they shouted, their voice bouncing off the walls, increasing the throbbing of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head. “Must you be so loud?”

The response he received was a chuckle. “In your case, yes.”

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows.

The man’s accent was slight and forced, making the detective realize he was not British, nor part of the United Kingdom. Opening his eyes, they began to focus, albeit slowly.

The man before him was broad, though not heavy, wearing what looked to be a navy-blue t-shirt and cut jeans. Despite the appearance, it was clear that the clothing was expensive, most likely designer from a higher-end store. The boots Sherlock had heard were steel-toed and black, covered in what looked to be bits of dirt and dried liquid. He wore two rings on each hand, bulky and scratched; a cell phone was in his left hand, unlocked with the screen brightness shining on his jeans. On his arms, Sherlock could see the faint lines of track marks.

“Do I owe money to someone I’m unaware exists?” Sherlock asked, his voice somewhat slurred. The man gave him a curious look. “You clearly shoot up regularly, but your clothing suggests you’re a dealer more than a user.” The man nodded, obviously impressed. “I’m assuming heroin, judging by your pupils.”

The man smiled in excitement. “Oh, you’re good. I like you.”

“Could you drop the accent? It’s quite painful to listen to one that bad.”

The man laughed and clapped his hands. “I thought my accent was pretty spot-on, to be honest. But leave it to a professional detective to call me out on it.” Once he spoke normally, Sherlock placed it in the Americas, most likely Southwestern if he had to pick a quadrant based on the Americans he has heard. His phone buzzed and he held it up, reading and responding to whatever text he had received.

“Texting your boss to tell him you’ve got me chained to a chair?” he asked, voice flooded with sarcasm.

“Oh, we actually have very little interest in you, Sherlock Holmes. But you see,” he held up his phone to face Sherlock. “Your brother, Mycroft, has been a thorn in our side, as of late and we – do smile pretty, won’t you? – never do like people intervening with our affairs.” The flash from the camera went off as Sherlock gave a sardonic smile. He brought the phone down and continued texting.

“Brilliant plan, but you miscounted.” The man’s eyebrows went up in curiosity, but he did not trail his gaze from his phone. “Mycroft’s never been one to negotiate, so all of this won’t bend in your favour.”

 The man looked up from his phone, contemplating, before a smile graced his features. “No one’s expecting an immediate response, Mr. Holmes. But believe me when I tell you that he will eventually, unless he’s always wanted to see his little brother die.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You might be surprised.”

The man closed the distance between them and reached down, grabbing Sherlock’s chin and forcing his head up.

“I doubt it.” He cocked his head, inspecting the other’s features as his fingernails dug into Sherlock’s cheek. “Though you do look a bit too clean for their liking. So why don’t we try giving a bit of incentive, hm?”

With that, he let go right before the back of his hand quickly and painfully struck Sherlock across the face. He repeated the action with his other hand, doing it several times, barely garnering an audible groan. When he finished, he stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

Sherlock’s face was red, blood slowly seeped out of a few areas of now-broken skin, as well as his mouth, which had been cut on his teeth.

The man nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“A bit better.” He took his phone back out and aimed it at the detective once more. “Come on, look up,” he said, snapping his fingers. Once Sherlock looked at him, the flash went off. Again, the man began texting. “Let’s call this a little portfolio of your progress. Because if Mycroft really couldn’t care, they’re going to need some way to identify the body.” He put his phone into his pocket, a disturbingly innocent smile on his face. “Tell me, Sherlock. How are you with being on film?”


	2. Picture of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a night of no word, John discovers what the people who abducted Sherlock are capable of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. m(__ __)m  
> I kept getting side-tracked with ideas, so my chapters have increased.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for the feedback! I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as the first!

**2**

**Picture of Madness**

The police station bustled with chatter, typing and the ringing of phones. The bulletin for the woman John and Sherlock had seen the night prior was still out with no word, which was only growing concern from the few he held close. John had entered the station early that morning, having failed to sleep due to his growing concern. One of the officers who had been assigned to the case offered him coffee, which the doctor took willingly, craving any from of caffeine to keep him awake.

He was currently held up in Lestrade’s office, his cell phone on his lap, in hopes to hear something. The detective inspector came in late that morning, most likely for the same reason John had not slept. When he did come in, his eyes were hooded, he spoke in slurs and his being overall exuded fatigue. He barely acknowledged John as he walked to his office and unlocked the door. John asked if he had heard anything, to which the answer was “no”, before he was asked the very same question, giving the same response.

At roughly nine-thirty that morning, a young female entered the station.

She was nervously grasping at the hem of her dress, requesting to see either Sergeant Donovan or Detective Lestrade. One of the officers dismissed her; yet, when John saw her through the blinds of Lestrade’s office, he got up and scrambled through the precinct, grabbing the young woman’s arm.

Her red hair and freckled face was that of shock and apprehension.

“Who are you?” John’s voice came out demanding, verging on the edge of anger.

The young woman panicked, her expression becoming fearful as she stared into John’s eyes. Donovan, seeing what was happening, crossed the room to stand between them, her hand on John’s arm, getting him to release the young female.

“Doctor Watson,” was all she got out before John looked accusingly at the red-haired female.

“She’s the woman we saw last night,” he spoke louder than he may have intended.

Donovan adverted her eyes to the female, whose expression was filled with anxiety and concern.

“I’m sorry,” she said hastily, her hands reaching to grab the strap of the satchel around her shoulder. “My friend heard the radio this morning and…I think you were looking for me.” Her grip tightened on the strap, gaining looks from both the sergeant and doctor.

“John, calm down,” Donovan said, holding her hand up to cut him off from responding. She turned her attention to the woman. “What’s your name?” The strict voice she typically utilized was absent, which seemed to have the young woman relax somewhat.

“Allison Maydock.” Donovan nodded, but as she was about to reply, John interjected:

“You were the woman who ran into us,” he reiterated, clearly upset as Lestrade came up, curious to the commotion going on. Her nerves seemed wracked, her gaze adverted downwards. “Where’s Sherlock? What did you do?”

At the question, the woman, Allison, jerked her head up, as though coming to a sudden realization. “He is missing?”

 With her inflection of that trying to confirm a suspicion, they all were taken by surprise.

“Where is he? What did you do to him?” John demanded, his voice tight and jaw tight.

She shook her head at the accusation. “Nothing! But there was a video on the site—” she cut herself off, as though regretting what she had said.

“Site?” Lestrade asked, stepping next to her. “What site?” When she did not respond, the detective inspector turned to stand straight in front of her. “If you are keeping any information from a police investigation, you can be charged with obstruction, do you understand?”

She fell quiet for a moment, battling with herself on whether or not to respond. After an awkward moment, she said quietly, “I – it’s a Sherlock kink site.” At the expressions she was given – Lestrade’s confusion, Donovan’s disgust and John’s incredulous stare – her face flushed red and she shook her head. “No – no – no! It’s not like that! It’s all fake, nothing’s real!” She looked down at her feet, gripping the strap tighter. “It’s where people write stories and draw and dress up. No one on the site actually wants to see or hear about the real Sherlock Holmes getting hurt. That’s not what it’s about,” she said frantically. “But this morning…someone uploaded a video and no one on the site thinks it’s a fake. A lot of people were saying to report it, but I don’t know if anyone has.”

“We need to see that video,” Lestrade’s voice came out firm, demanding.

The girl nodded as she shook with anxiety.

As Donovan escorted the young woman to Lestrade’s office, Lestrade looked at John, whose eyebrows were furrowed upwards, apprehension written across his face, though Lestrade was certain his expression mirrored the same.

Once in the office, Donovan was leaning over the chair that the young woman now sat in. The sergeant motioned to the computer and Lestrade strode over to put in his passcode. He stepped back and gave the young woman free range, glancing up only to motion for John to close the door. The woman typed the site into the address bar.

When the homepage came on the screen, they were introduced to a slew of fan made pictures with Sherlock in compromising positions. Donovan made her disgust apparent, asking rhetorically, “Why does this exist?” as she turned her head away from the screen. Both Lestrade and John shifted uncomfortably, while John momentarily stared up at the ceiling, exhaling an awkward breath. Allison was silent, her eyes fixated on the screen as she scrolled down to where there was a link for “videos.” Both of her hands were shaking as she tried her best to maintain a straight face, which was a bright red. Having an inspector, a sergeant and Sherlock’s best mate peering at a webpage that should never have been made known to them had her heart pounding in her chest, feeling as though it might explode at any given moment.

Seeing the obvious look of discomfort, they had a silent agreement to not make her feel even more awkward.

The cursor ghosted over the thumbnail of the most recent video, which had a timestamp of four twenty-one that morning. The thumbnail showed three men, one of which was in a chair with their neck craned back and a white washcloth over their face; one of the other men was holding both sides of the cloth, keeping it tight on the other’s face, while the last man was standing to the side, his head towards the camera.

Taking her hand off the mouse, she looked up at Donovan, whose eyes were analysing the picture.

“I couldn’t even watch it the first time,” Allison said, her voice shaking. “Please don’t make me sit through it.”

Donovan looked to Lestrade.

“Could you go ahead and get her statement?” Lestrade asked the female sergeant, though it was more of a directive.

Although she appeared annoyed that she would not be able to watch whatever the video entailed, Donovan still nodded and placed her hand on the young girl’s shoulder. Taking her out of the room, John and Lestrade waited until they saw both of them at Donovan’s desk before turning their attention back to the computer.

Clearly hesitant, Lestrade grabbed the mouse and hovered over the thumbnail. As though nervous of what he would see, a verbal acknowledgement from John gave him the final push to click.

The moment the video opened, Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, his expression going into a panic. John’s breath caught in his throat and he began shaking his head, refusing to believe what he saw.

The camera was focused on Sherlock, apparently beaten, who was chained to a chair on the floor. One man stood next to him, his stature tall and lean, wearing a white t-shirt and black cargo pants. His face was covered with a black half mask, only exposing the bridge of his nose and up. The camera appeared to shift, as someone behind it angled it to where they wanted, with Sherlock in the direct centre.

“Don’t look so nervous, Sherlock. Keep a strong face for Mycroft, won’t you?” a man with an American accent spoke off-screen. Despite the man’s comment, Sherlock’s expression was that of disinterest. “Give a smile for the camera, darling.” The camera zoomed in on Sherlock’s face, who gave a cynical smile before falling back to a resting position. The camera zoomed back out. The person behind the camera laughed. “I’m sure your attitude will change in a moment.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock responded, his eyes focused beyond the camera, most likely on the speaker.

There was a laugh. The man had finally entered the screen, walking up to Sherlock right before he hit the detective across the face. He grabbed the front of Sherlock’s button-up.

“It damn well better, because your current attitude’s pissing me off.” He directed his attention towards the camera, or behind it, so it seemed. With a motion of his head, he was tossed a white cloth, which he held up in view of both the camera and Sherlock. “Know what this is?”

At the question, the detective rolled his eyes. “Have we moved on to game shows, now?”

The demeanour of the man suddenly changed and he grabbed Sherlock’s throat, gripping tight enough to stop blood flow. “Keep this up and you’ll end up in pieces scattered around the fucking country before the sun comes up, got it?” With the blood pounding in his ears and face turning a dark red, Sherlock failed to respond, causing the man to grip tighter. “Got it?!”

A garbled “yes” seem to be what he wanted and he let go, stepping back. Sherlock sucked in breath-after-breath, mixed with several coughs.

“Now do some math, _detective_ ,” he said mockingly. “You already know what’s coming, so you might as well play along.” Sherlock locked eyes with him, not responding, his jaw tightening. He handed the cloth to the man in the mask, before being handed a jug of water from the person off-screen.

“Not really thirsty at the moment, but I do appreciate the offer.”

The only reaction he received was the masked man pulling the white cloth over his face and pulling back, forcing Sherlock’s head backwards. “Get your last breath in, Mr. Holmes,” the unmasked man said as he undid the lid to the water jug. “You’re going to need it.”

Right as Sherlock gasped through the cloth, the man began pouring water over it.

Almost immediately, Sherlock began jerking against the chains and shackles that held him. The chair scratched on the floor in the few centimetres it could move as the young genius tried whatever he could to get away, but was unable. With the pouring being slow, the experience of drowning was extended, causing Sherlock to become erratic, his body spasming more with each second. It was not until the jug was half empty when the water stopped and the cloth was removed from his face, revealing a coughing, sputtering and gagging Sherlock.

He was only given a few seconds of reprieve before the cloth was pulled back over his face. All he could get out was a partial protest that quickly was drowned out.

The duo took the second round slower, drawing out each insufferable gargle and cough. The shackles around the young genius’ ankles and wrists cut into him as he fought, drawing minimal amounts of blood, which quickly disappeared into the cement floor. His body began convulsing when the jug was still a quarter full, which the others took advantage of, having the water come out of the jug barely above a dribble and keeping the cloth saturated.

By the time they finished and removed the cloth, Sherlock was unresponsive.

“Goddamn it,” the unmasked man groaned. With his free hand, he started to lightly smack Sherlock’s face. “It’s too early to die, Sherlock. C’mon. Wakey, wakey.”

When he garnered no response, a frowned befell his face. He put his hand on Sherlock’s chest and pushed below the ribcage.

Almost immediately, Sherlock came-to, coughing and choking, though nothing came up. He began sucking in breath-after-breath when his body came to the realization it could breath once again. While his fit went on, the unmasked man moved to grab the camera off of the apparent-tripod. He focused it on Sherlock’s face, who had turned from red to a dark purple as the coughs went on. When the young detective had finally stopped coughing and leaned his head back, his breath haggard, the camera zoomed in close to his mouth, seeing his tongue drop to the bottom of his jaw as the back of his throat opened completely to allow more airflow.

Behind the camera, the man inhaled, releasing the air through his teeth.

“I can’t wait to put that mouth to better use,” he said, voice coming out in a moan.

With that said, the camera shut off, the screen going black as the video ended.

In front of his mouth, John’s fist was in a grip, his hand shaking.

Lestrade’s hands were on the back of his neck, his eyes locked onto the computer screen, even as it went to black with the option of replaying.

As they stood dumbstruck in front of the computer screen, they failed to notice Donovan opening the door, stepping into the room.

Before she spoke, her eyes darted to both of them, her expression becoming curious and concerned. When Lestrade finally looked up to her, his eyes red and brows furrowed upwards, her demeanour tensed, demanding to know what had gone on.


	3. Brotherly Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's reaction to the video send him home, where he meets the man the video was meant for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this took so long! (bows) m(__ __)m
> 
> I got to a point, then my brain just went, "Yeah...screw you, bitch," and took off to Hawaii.   
> I actually had to ask my husband how to progress, and he said, "You could try blah blah blah."   
> Surprisingly, it worked! (laughs)
> 
> Gotta love the straight man who helps me write slash. (￣▽￣)

**3**

**Brotherly Requiem**

 

John was forced to return to 221B Baker Street after a break down against the woman – Allison – as she sat at Donovan’s desk. As he was escorted out by Lestrade and another officer, the woman was in tears, apologizing for something that she was not at fault for. A cab was hailed and paid for by the detective inspector, instructing the cabbie to take John directly to the flat, even if the doctor told him otherwise. During the ride, all he could think about was the video, his anger growing with his passing moment – anger at the video, the abductors, the woman…himself for losing his situational awareness upon seeing his friend disoriented the night prior.

He knew better.

His training had _taught_ him better, yet it still failed him when he should have been on-guard.

Upon arriving outside the flat, he barely acknowledged the cabbie as he got out and slammed the door closed. The driver drove off as John walked the two steps to stand in front of the door and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it in a long exhale. The last thing he wanted to do was go inside and do nothing while the state of his best mate was unknown, but he also knew he had to get his bearings straight before he would be any good to anyone.

After the hesitation, he finally entered the flat, shutting the door lightly behind him while he peered up the stairs, as though listening for Sherlock’s presence; whether it be the violin, loud banging, yelling or, his least favourite, gunfire. Hearing nothing, his heart dropped and shut his eyes. More times than not, he had hoped to come home to quiet after a stressful day, but now that it was, it was unnerving and he found himself regretting ever wanting it to be quiet.

He had to fight with himself to ascend the stairs.

When he came outside the door, his brow furrowed, seeing it slightly ajar.

Palm to the door, he slowly pushed it open, readying himself for an inevitability. Instead, when he saw who was standing by the table between the windows, he dropped his shoulders.

“You’re a little late, don’t you think?” his voice came out in aggravation as his hands found their way to his hips. When he did not get a response, his jaw clenched. His eyes moving to the opened laptop before going right back to the intruder.

Mycroft looked up at him as he turned the laptop’s screen to face him and pressed the spacebar. The sound of Sherlock gagging and choking filled the room. John did not bother looking at the screen and, instead, locked eyes with the taller man; the anger he had managed to quell in the hall grew with each second the video went on. Hitting the spacebar again, Mycroft paused the video, drawing his attention to the screen, which was of his younger brother’s head now forward in mid-cough.

“Doctor Watson, it seems we have a problem,” he spoke calmly, looking back to him.

“Are you just figuring that out?” His eyes darted to the screen. “So you do know what’s happened, then. Can I ask what you’re doing about it?” his tone was strict, which Mycroft either failed to pick up on or decided to ignore.

“We’ve tried to track the video, but it appears they’ve encrypted and bounced the originating IP address through a relay of virtual circuits. Most likely using the same program they did to send the route information to the members in the UK.”

John knitted his eyebrows in confusion. “They?” Mycroft looked at him, as though not understanding what John failed to comprehend. “Who are “they”?”

“Ah, right,” the eldest Holmes said with a nonchalant expression. Moving back to the laptop, he switched to a tab that he must have had loaded before John’s arrival. A bolded headline came up reading _Rumours Circulate: Cielo Diablos Moves Traffic Overseas_. “Cielo Diablos, originating in Mexico, moved to the US and now they’ve managed to move operations to the UK. We got intel from overseas that they had planned to open several rings here,” he went on as John crossed the room to skim the article. “We managed to shutdown two of their operations, one which they had based out of Wales. One of the men we brought in said they had planned to set one in London, which we’ve been trying to locate for weeks.”

Pictures of dismembered bodies filled the screen as John scrolled down, reading the methods of torture and mutilations the cartel was apparently known for. “Jesus,” was the only thing he could get out as he ran his hand through his hair, staring at the various photos.

“It’s not uncommon for them to go after family members of people they believe get too close; rather, it’s one of the things they’re known for,” he trailed off, seeming to focus on anything that was not John Watson’s look of horror.

The physical change in him was apparent, evidenced by his ever-creasing brow line and dangerously still hands. “And why didn’t you ask for Sherlock’s help?” John’s voice was starting to rise, his anxiety and frustration coming to the surface as he managed to look away from the photos and pull his attention back to Mycroft.

“I didn’t want him involved,” Mycroft said firmly, irritably, his composure beginning to falter. “This isn’t one person with a few political ties here and there that wouldn’t pose him or us much of a threat. This group works underground, and they do whatever needs to be done to keep it that way. Going up against military or government is what they train to do; taking out partners, family members, anyone they need to get what they want.”

The look of incredulity on John’s face was one that could not be ignored.

“And you didn’t think that maybe, _just maybe_ , your brother should’ve been made aware that his life was possibly in danger?”

“I had maximum security surveillance on him—”

“That worked out great, clearly.”

They held eye contact. John’s eyes were wide, his brow furrowed in a mixture of anger, fear and frustration, his jaw taut. Seeing a hint of the latter two emotions reflected on Mycroft’s features, John released a breath and broke his gaze away, beginning to pace around the flat.

His mind raced with possibilities on how to find his best mate, but with no leads, he could not think properly on where to start. The feel of Mycroft’s eyes watching him was making him crosser and he found himself wanting to slam his fist against the eldest Holmes’ face. If Mycroft would have at least told _him_ about an impending threat, he would have been on guard of any suspicious activities or persons.

“If they know they have my attention, they will do worse to him,” Mycroft’s voice invaded his thoughts, having him turn to look at him.

“So you’ll just stand back and do nothing, then?” When Mycroft did not respond, John nodded his head, releasing a fast exhale through his nose as he turned his back to him, pacing towards the door.

“They will kill him, John,” Mycroft said, a hint of desperation flirting with his tone. “Whether they get what they want or not, they will kill him.” The typical façade Mycroft usually held onto broke at the realization he had already known.

At the information, John suddenly turned back around and walked up to him, staring up at the taller man with an oddly composed rage. “Then what do you think is better, hm? Sherlock dies honestly believing his brother doesn’t give a damn about him? Or dies knowing that you tried anything and everything in your power to bring him home? Now you tell me: what would you rather have him think?”

It was clear of Mycroft’s internal conflict, despite his expression barely changing.

With the air tense, Mycroft came out with, “I can’t lose him, John. It would destroy me.”

John nodded while still holding eye contact. “Then we’ll bring him home together,” he said slowly with assent. There was a silent affirmation. John’s eyes quickly went back to the laptop, a question tugging at the corner of his mind. “If you had him under surveillance, then how did you lose track of him?”

The older man inhaled, shifting as he put his hands in his pockets.

“We lost the van near Cavendish Square. They managed to hack into the traffic cameras, putting them on loop. We were unaware of the breach until then.” Admitting that they were ignorant to a crack in their own system did not appear to come easy to the man Sherlock had once referred to as “being the British government.”

John furrowed his brow as his gaze followed Mycroft, who walked to peer out of the window. “How could they do that exactly?”

“It’s not difficult, Doctor Watson. With the right equipment, even an amateur can do it.” He failed to see the frown he received as a response.

More questions swarmed around his head and John was trying to focus on the one that was the most important; however, given the situation, they all were of equal importance to him.

How could they find him?

Where could they start?

How would Sherlock’s situation be once they found him?

Or if they didn’t?

He knew the young genius could withstand more physical pain that most capable people – hell, he had seen his fellow soldiers crack under circumstances he knew Sherlock would handle with ease. Even with this knowledge, he knew Sherlock had his breaking points. As much as the young man always claimed to favour logic over emotion, he was more emotional than even he would ever be willing to admit. Given enough stressors, he would crack. John could only hope they would find him before that point would be reached.

Then again, if anyone could hold out, it would be the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

The sound of ringing sounded about the flat.

John looked at Mycroft, who took his mobile from his pocket.

“What have you found?” he asked the moment his phone was to his ear. A moment’s pause was followed with, “Quite right. In twenty.” There was an audible _beep_ as the call ended and he returned his phone to his pocket. “Seems the van has been located,” he responded to John’s unasked question. “You will be accompanying me, I assume.” He passed John to the flat’s door, but not before he took up his umbrella, which had been leaning against the back of the chair his younger brother typically occupied.

There was no hesitation as John followed after him.

* * *

 

The legs of the chair scraped against the floor, digging scratches across the concrete. With each movement, the banging echoed around the room. Given enough time, the noise would undoubtedly be investigated, and given the actions that transpired the last time more than one person occupied the room, the young detective was attempting to make haste.

Behind the leg of the chair lay a metal pin – one the masked mad was unaware had fallen from his pockets during his time subduing a struggling genius.

Sherlock was trying to drop the chair sideways to reach it, but the way both he and it were shackled was not allowing for much leeway. With one final rock, he hit the floor, his shoulder making hard contact, radiating a shock of pain down his arm and side. It was quickly ignored and he jerked to move the chair and get his hand close enough to the pin. His fingers traced what he could not see and he started to shift backwards, closer to where he knew the pin had fallen.

After several attempts, he finally felt the thin piece of metal and was able to grip it between the tips of his index and middle fingers. He had to go by feel as he made the ninety-degree bend at the tip of the pin before feeling for the keyhole to the shackle. Once he found it and inserted it at the top of the hole, he had to fenagle with it for a bit before he heard it click. Pushing his wrist outwards, he freed his right hand before passing the pin and starting on the left. Right as he had it positioned inside the keyhole, the sound of footsteps came from the hall beyond the door.

He quickly positioned his right wrist back into the shackle without locking it back into place and slipped the pin into the cuff of his shirt. He set his head on the ground.

“Wha’ tha ‘ell are ya doin’?” There was an odd air of relief at it not being the voice of the man from early that morning – the voice a thick cockney.

“Figured I’d lie down, rest a bit.” He saw the outline of the person from his peripheral. The man was short and stout, face sunken in from apparent years of drug use. Unlike the man from earlier, his clothes were not worn from choice, but necessity – most likely someone lower on the totem pole, given the menial tasks that those in higher ranks felt did not require their attention. The way he carried himself hinted that he was not much of a threat if something were to arise.

The back of the chair was grabbed and Sherlock was pulled from the floor, the chair returning to its original sitting position. Subconsciously, Sherlock tensed when the man leaned down in front of him, placing his hands on Sherlock’s upper thighs, dangerously close to his groin. “Ya really do ‘ave a pretty mouth,” he said, his lips twitching to show yellowing teeth. “Mind if I use it?”

“Rather you didn’t,” came the response, his eyes quickly darting down to a bulge in the man’s jeans.

“An’ give up a shot a’ tha real Sherlock Holmes? I’ve been wantin’ ta do this for a long time.” He ran his hands up further, before he leaned in further to try to press his mouth against the young genius’. Sherlock pulled his head away, leaving the man to make contact with the side of his mouth. His breath smelled acidic, as though the man had gone several days without sustenance, instead only relying on whatever drugs to fuel him.

When his hands finally found their way to Sherlock’s groin, there was a click.

With a hard swing, the knuckles on Sherlock’s right hand made contact with the man’s temple, sending the stout man crumpling to the floor. Sherlock shook his hand, the hit causing a slight pain down his wrist. He stared at the now-unconscious man as he started reworking the pin against the left shackle.

“Apologies, but you’re not quite my type.”

The left shackle clicked, freeing his other hand.

It only took him another minute to free himself from the restraints around his ankles.

Once unfettered, he crouched to search the man, only to find him unbothered by a weapon. A frown befell his face, but he quickly shook it off, taking the only chance he may have to escape the enclosure.

Ensuring that no one was in the hall, Sherlock made his way down, ears on alert for any sound that he himself did not make. When the low light from the room could no longer penetrate through the hall, Sherlock was left in complete darkness, leaving his fingers to trace along the wall. It was not long until his foot hit a block, causing him to hiss at the pain that radiated through from his toe to his heel.

A cold metal met his forefoot, along with the honeycomb pattern of a grate, as he stepped up. After a few curved steps, light emanated from somewhere near the top, reflecting off a grey wall. He stopped, listening for a hint of life. Hearing nothing, he lifted his foot to the next step.

A sharp pain shot through his left foot and he stumbled forward.

Trying to catch himself, both of his hands were sliced on shards of glass.

An unwanted yell escaped his throat as he retracted them close to his body, a shard sticking itself into his left palm. To make up for the sudden shift, his right foot tried to gain traction, only to be met with more glass. He rolled onto his back, his right hand shaking as he went to pull the shard from his left. Though not being able to see, he could feel the trail of blood pour from his hand and down his wrist.

He jerked his attention when he heard boots crunching on glass from the top of the stairs.

Using his elbows and forearms, he turned back to his stomach, facing the sound as he attempted to move back down, ignoring the glass that dug into his bare feet and forearms.

A shadow blocked out the small sliver of light as it descended the stairs before coming to a halt.

“Oh, Sherlock,” was a familiar voice. “I’ve gotta give you props for the attempt, but a zero for the landing.”

Sherlock attempted to stand, but it was forewent as a kick to his chest caused him to fall backwards down the steps. He hit the wall at a bend, groaning at the fresh bruises forming and small shards of glass sticking into exposed areas of skin. He moved backwards down the stairs as the shadowy figure made its descent, finally hitting the flat ground at the end. Despite his injured and bleeding feet, he stood up, stumbling down the hall and back to the room he had been held in.

Once in the room, he moved to the chair, picking it up from its original position and moving back to the doorframe, ignoring his sliced hands. When the man stepped into the doorway, Sherlock swung the chair as hard as he could.

It broke upon impact, sending splintering wood in every which direction.

His air of relief quickly diminished when the man walked into the room. He swung at him, aiming for his temple, only for his hand to be grabbed and twisted until there was a faint _snap_. Reflex had him try to pull his hand close, but given that the man did not release his grip, Sherlock found himself staring into the dark eyes of his captor. Before he could attempt another strike, a sharp pain shot through his knee as the man kicked his knee in, forcing it to bend the opposite direction. With a cry of distress, he hit the floor, his kneecap now bulging beneath the skin.  

The man stepped over him as he cradled his injuries, moving to his incapacitated ally.

He crouched down and began smacking him across the face.

“Get your ass up, you worthless piece of shit,” he said as he smacked him again, this time hard enough to leave a red handprint. As the man stirred, the other grabbed his shirt, pulling him up from the floor. “I give you want you want served on a silver platter and you still manage to fuck it up.” He pushed him back to floor when a mumbled “sorry” escaped the other’s throat, and stood up, turning to Sherlock, who was crawling towards the broken pieces of the chair. “So sorry about him. He’s new.”

There was a buzz emanating from the man’s pocket. He took out his mobile and unlocked the screen, his fingers tapping away. As he sent the message, he walked to Sherlock and dug his heel into the back of the detective’s injured knee, garnering a shout as Sherlock was less than a foot from the broken chair’s leg.

“Why the hurry? I’ve yet to hear from your brother, so we’ve got so much more time together.”

“The world would end before then, so we should cut this short,” Sherlock said, getting his mind right to block out the pain.

There was a pause of contemplation. “Do you think so little of him?”

“No,” was the immediate response. “I think that highly of him.”

For once, the man had no reply, instead giving a mocked sympathetic expression. “You know, I figured Mycroft had some fucked up relationships, but that? That’s just sad.”

Both of their attentions were drawn to heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

Two men entered the room, one donning brown cargo pants and black tank-top, the other in dark-washed jeans and white button-up. Unlike the people Sherlock had been introduced to, neither of them had track marks on their arms, nor were their eyes reflecting any form of drug use. The way they carried themselves, for the first time, had Sherlock feel threatened. There was the speculation that it was not they who listened to the man Sherlock had first met, but had most likely received orders from higher up – perhaps even the runner of whatever group Mycroft had managed to gain the attention of.

That notion had him go on full guard.

“You weren’t supposed to immobilize him,” the one in the black tank-top said, his accent proper, as the other moved to grab Sherlock by his neck and shoulders, hoisting him to his feet.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” the other shot back. “This dumb fuck’s the reason he got out in the first place,” he said, motioning to the man Sherlock had struck in the temple.

Black tank-top-man’s eyes darted to the man whose face became fear-stricken. His jaw clenched, an anger seeming to build. “Honestly?!” he shouted, causing the cockney-accented man to flinch before falling into apologies. The man clenched his fists and shut his eyes, as though trying to calm himself. “I told him not to bring you on, but he didn’t want to listen.” He reached behind him into the waistband of his pants, brandishing a para .42.

The sound of a gunshot echoed throughout the room.

The body of the lower-class man hit the floor, his eyes opened as a bullet wound leaked blood from his skull.

“Oi, where do you want him?” the man who held Sherlock asked as the genius was trying and failing at getting free.

The other clicked his tongue before pulling his attention back to the American. “Have you heard from Mycroft Holmes, yet?”

He shook his head, shrugging. “Nope. Don’t even know if he saw our video, to be honest.”

“Oh, I’m sure he did. Someone that high up? If he doesn’t know when his brother wanks off, I’d be surprised.” He released a breath, his eyes trailing to Sherlock. “We’re moving a bit ahead of schedule, but so be it.” He walked up to Sherlock, his expression unreadable when he ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair and down his cheek. “My men are gonna love you, Mr. Holmes. You’re already the topic of conversation.”

“I’m flattered,” Sherlock spoke nonchalantly, despite his heart skipping a beat. “But I do have matters to attend to – more important than those of your _men_ , I’m sure.”

The man smiled, his expression dark. “I’ve read your blog – the way you and your boyfriend meander about London solving crimes. Well let me give you a good old-fashioned mystery, Sherlock Holmes.” He brought his face close to the detective’s. “London’s most famous detective goes missing; his lover and government brother try to find him, but they don’t realize the harder they try, the more the detective suffers. All it would take to end it is the detective’s important brother to drop his own investigation. Now I ask you, Mr. Holmes: how would this mystery end in the mind of the famous detective?”

Sherlock inhaled, meeting the man’s eyes.

He went through the various outcomes, each leading to the same ending, which failed to end in his favour.

“The detective dies, even if his “important brother” were to stop his own investigation.”

At the answer, the man smiled. “Now wouldn’t it be best if the detective got his worth?” Sherlock fell silent while maintaining eye contact, not wanting to believe the logic that ran through his mind on what was to come. The man smiled. “Take him to the back,” he ordered, referring to the bloody mattress butted against the pipes in the back. “It’s time to have some fun.”


	4. Mouth of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even his Mind Palace can't distract Sherlock from the degradation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT mean for this to take this long! m(__ __)m  
> I tried to get it up a few days ago, but I never had a chance to sit down and work on it. 
> 
> This chapter was actually supposed to be longer,  
> but I really wanted to get something up for you all,  
> so I decided to split it. 
> 
> I hope you like it!!

**4**

**Mouth of Madness**

 

There was the sound of metal against metal.

The chain that had once connected the shackles to the d-rings on the floor around the chair was now connected to the L-shaped bend of the pipes near the mattress, which was roughly three-feet from the floor. On the opposite end of the chain was Sherlock, who was facing the pipes with his hands restrained behind his back, keeping his upper body from the mattress and arms twisted at an odd angle as his knees dug into broken springs. The way he was chained, if he dropped his body, both shoulders would dislocate, forcing him to hold tension. The dislocated knee was bent awkwardly, causing a shooting pain any time he shifted even slightly or any form of pressure was placed upon it; but it was a pain he could easily block out.  

Behind him, the American was setting up a camera on a tripod, the same camera utilized during the prior waterboarding. The body of the man who had been shot was still in the room, left on the floor where his body had made a thud of finality. A pool of blood was around his head on the floor, the blood having already coagulated around the hole in his forehead.

A buzz emanated from the American’s pocket and Sherlock could hear the man’s fingers make contact with the screen as he responded to whatever text he had received. After a sigh, he went back to messing with the camera.

“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” he said, though he sounded as though he was talking to himself. “Think you could recommend a reliable plumber, Sherlock? Don’t know who I can trust in my apartment in the damned city.”

The phrasing had Sherlock file the information away.

He was still within the limits of City of Westminster.

Where was left to be determined.

“Charnock Plumbing is decent from what I’ve heard,” Sherlock said, to which the man made a verbal acknowledgement. “A bit expensive, but I doubt that’d be much of a problem. All Trades London is a bit cheaper, if you’d rather.”

Though he did not see it, the man smiled.

“Thank you. I really do appreciate that.”

“Well, given the crime rate in London these days, I completely understand distrust towards strangers.” The man chuckled as Sherlock shifted, causing the chain to clink.

“You know, I really do like you, Sherlock Holmes. Which is more than I can say for most people we’ve had visit.” He released an airy breath. “I may actually feel remorse later on down the road.”

“We can’t have that, now can we?”

“Well, most people are horrible conversationalists. They tend to scream and cry too much, and that just annoys me. But you,” he walked over to Sherlock and crouched down to hold his chin and have him look up, the detective’s expression ever unchanging. “You’re collected – calm. Under different circumstances, you’d probably be my type.”

Sherlock sneered. “If only,” his voice was filled with sarcasm, to which the American laughed.

Without any prompting, the man brought their mouths together; reactionary response had Sherlock clenching his jaw. The American spent a few moments trying to get Sherlock to open his mouth, which he had to force by pressing his fingers into Sherlock’s cheeks. The moment there was slack, he sucked the genius’s tongue between his teeth before biting down, garnering a muffled shout as Sherlock’s tongue retracted from reflex. The man pulled back, grinning as he licked Sherlock’s blood from his own lip.

“How about we have some personal time before everyone else joins in?” He ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair and stood up. He unbuckled his belt and undid the button and zipper to his jeans. Sherlock adverted his gaze to staring back down at the mattress, his jaw tightening. It was only a moment before his hair was gripped and he was forced to turn his head towards the length now staring him in the face. “C’mon, show me what else that mouth can do,” his voice came out slow, nearly in a moan as he rubbed the head on Sherlock’s lips. “And don’t bite. It wouldn’t end well for either of us.”

Going against his better judgement, Sherlock found himself parting his lips, giving the man entry. The moment it pressed against his uvula, he gagged, causing the man to extract himself as Sherlock fell into a round of coughing and gagging. Once he inhaled a full breath, his head was grabbed and he was forced to take the man’s length once again. This time, when his uvula was passed, the man held Sherlock’s head still, groaning as the detective’s throat closed around him, choking. He pulled back, before driving his knob into the back of the detective’s throat.  

He moaned with each thrust, groaning in particular whenever Sherlock gagged.

“Oh, you’re amazing, Sherlock,” he moaned as he held Sherlock’s head in place, thrusting in and out.

Anytime Sherlock would cough or gag, the man would release a low-pitted moan, but would give no reprieve, instead holding the position longer. It did not take long before the thrusts got harder and faster, hitting the back of the young genius’s throat. Despite attempting to pull away, he was held firmly in place as the man released his seed into his throat and mouth, releasing a loud grunt as he did.

Sherlock’s reaction was to pull his head away, but it was merely a failed attempt. “Swallow it,” the voice came out in a raspy command as fingers trailed through his hair. With the motion he was able, Sherlock’s head jarred, his breath releasing from his nasal passages. “Oh, Sherlock…it wasn’t a request.” His nose was pinched shut while the man grabbed the back of his head and forced his length down his throat. Sherlock could only refrain for so long before his throat contracted and he swallowed, the bitter aftertaste left on the back of his tongue.

When the man retracted himself, some of his liquid followed, leaving a trail down Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock tried to wipe it on his shirt, but even with his chin lowered, he could not reach to his shoulder. His hair was grabbed and, once more, a flash went off in his face.

His head was dropped and he heard the tapping as the man began another text message, along with the sound of a zipper as the man tucked himself back into his designer jeans.

Despite knowing what happened was unavoidable, Sherlock’s subconscious was understanding disgust – not just with the man, but himself. Rationalization took over, but the back of his mind refused to silence itself. He shut his eyes, drawing his attention to anything but the current situation. He began visualizing everything leading up to his position – from John convincing him to go to dinner, leaving the flat, the man on his mobile, the red-haired fan – all to waking up and seeing the residue on the man’s boots.

Wait.

The dirt on his boots had been wet at one point, meaning he was in a location with mud. Given that it had not rained in the last few days, and that the man clearly took care in his appearance, logic concluded he was near water.

Near water.

Still in the City of Westminster.

Enclosed structure.

He was by the river.

Most likely one of the abandoned buildings along the south end or a possible port, though the latter seemed unlikely given everyone’s carefree demeanour.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps coming from the hallway as Sherlock heard three sets of boots enter through the door from the hall. One of the strides he recognized as the man who wore the black tank-top. He subconsciously tensed, his spine going straight. The American had already returned to his position behind the camera, acting as though nothing had occurred. Sherlock could hear the man tapping away on the screen to his mobile, but, much the same, tried to not react to the newcomers.

“Took y’all long enough,” the American spoke casually without looking up from his phone.

There was a scoff, followed by close steps and a hand on Sherlock’s left buttock. Through his slacks, fingers ran from the bass of his scrotum to his rectum, making his body tense against his will. It was followed up with the band of his pants being gripped before a hand slipped into the band, where the flesh of fingertips began running down his buttocks to his entrance. An unwillingly grunt escaped him as an index finger pressed against him before crossing his boundary. He attempted to block the foreign sensation, yet his body clenched against his will, squeezing the man’s finger.

A whimper escaped when another digit entered, which he muffled by biting the inside of his mouth.

“He’s tight,” the voice of the black-tank-topped man came out. “Hope Mycroft’s always wanted to see you railed, Sherlock,” he said, a low laugh escaping his throat. “Dreln, get a close-up on his arse – I want Mycroft to see every inch of his little brother.”

The American laughed as the other man gripped the band of Sherlock’s trousers and pulled, ripping the seam and exposing the young genius’s behind.

His bare flesh suddenly exposed to the cold air of the room had chill bumps form on his skin, and he found himself tugging at the chains, which only garnered a sharp pain down his back. When his buttocks were spread, his brain began trying to find anything else to focus on. It decided focusing on the previous night was the best situation.

While John was gone for the day, he had continually searched for something to do – something to solve within the city. An older lady had come to the flat, requesting his help about her husband, who she said would disappear in the middle of the night while he thought she was asleep. The obvious answer of an affair had not sat well with her and she called him several obscenities before storming out, not even bothering to close the door as her heels pounded down the stairs. Afterwards, he had gone back to scouring the papers, occasionally asking John if he had anything, despite the soldier being no where near the flat. When nothing came up, he had gone back to reading, managing several books before John returned that evening.

His thoughts were interrupted as a hand hit hard across his rear, followed by a hissing sound as two thumbs pressed into him.

His body tensed from reflex.

An unwilling grunt fell from his throat as his hole was spread, albeit small.

“I need something, then,” came an unfamiliar voice to a prior statement Sherlock had not been paying attention.

“You’ve got spit, don’t you?” was the sarcastic response of the American.

There was an audible growl.

There was only a moment’s pause before two fingers were inserted, the dryness causing friction and skin skipping on skin as the pressed in further. Once both of the man’s fingers were completely inside him, he began making a scissor-like motion, gaining muffled grunts and from the detective. He felt something wet at his entrance as the man allowed his saliva to drip at the base of his fingers. He had only coated the entrance before extracting his fingers.

Sherlock tried to prepare himself for what was coming next.

Tried to get his mind right.

To focus on something – _anything_.

But it was foregone as he felt the tip of the man’s prick against his rectal cavity, pressing in slowly. After the sound of the man spitting, the man pushed into him, groaning as he did. Despite knowing tensing would only make it hurt, his sphincter contracted against his will, causing him to release a low cry.

“Gods, he’s tight,” the man said as he pulled out and pushed back in, getting the same response. “Feels so good,” his voice came out in a moan.

Sherlock’s mind travelled, his spine tingling.

He found himself in Mycroft’s office, his older brother sitting behind his desk as his eyes traced along the papers in a folder. Sherlock looked around the room, moving from the two metal chairs in front of the desk to the portrait of Queen Elizabeth II on the wall.

“All this going on and you come to see me?” Mycroft asked, closing the folder as he drew his gaze to Sherlock. Sherlock knitted his brows in curiosity. “Brother Mine, what could you possibly hope for me to tell you that you don’t already know?” Sherlock cocked his head, his expression unchanging. “Are you wanting me to tell you everything will be all right? You and I both know how that will go.”  

“Mycroft…I’m…scared,” Sherlock came out with, his face overwrought with confusion.

Even as the words escaped him, he failed to understand them.

The last time he recalled being scared, he was under the influence of a drug on Dartmoor in Devon. Prior to that was when while he was still with his parents, Mycroft had returned home from University and his brother had—

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft spoke in a sigh. “Pretend it’s someone you love. It will help.”

The younger genius felt his eyes begin to burn as his head shook.

An electric jolt shot down his lower spine as an unwanted shout was released from his vocal chords.

The man had switched angles, pounding inside him at an awkward position, feeling as though it was ramming into the side of his wall. It was not long before the man released a grunt, spilling his seed into Sherlock. He performed a few more thrusts, pumping the white liquid inside him before retracting himself.

Feeling the semen seep out of him, vomit rose in Sherlock’s throat. He swallowed it down, keeping his eyes shut as he attempted to return the palace he had called comfort.

Even with his eyelids shut, he could see the flash of the American’s phone shine on the wall.


	5. The Little Martyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The van that Sherlock was abducted in is located. Meanwhile, Sherlock is subjected to scenarios that bring out his own inner demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!  
> So this chapter is insanely intense,  
> but not the most intense (if that makes sense). 
> 
> I was DESPERATE to get this chapter up prior to Sunday!  
> Mainly because my job will have me out of commission for a while,  
> and I don't know how long,  
> whereas we travel all along the East Coast of the United States. 
> 
> If I don't have chapter six up by Saturday,  
> I will have it uploaded shortly after this job is completed (^ ^*)

**5**

**The Little Martyr**

 The van was sitting on the southern bank of the River Thames by the time John had arrived alongside Mycroft. The van’s interior was waterlogged and several scenes of crime officers were scouring the taped-off scene, taking photographs and trying to recover what they could from the damaged vehicle.

Lestrade was in the midst of speaking to one of the crime scene officers, going over what evidence that had been destroyed and the bit that was recovered. The longer the conversation went on, the more the detective inspector’s apprehension grew, his brow line ever creasing. When another SOCO approached them with another recovery, Lestrade stared at him, his expression unreadable as he nodded. As the two crime scene officers went over their finds, Lestrade excused himself.

Seeing John, he made his way over. When his gaze trailed to Mycroft, who stood a few feet away with his attention on the van, he unconsciously tensed, something even John picked up on, to which he glanced between the two before focusing solely on the inspector.

“What have they found?” Mycroft asked, not bothering to look at the man he spoke to.

Lestrade released a breath. “We found the owner of the van – belonged to an Agatha Delaney…who reported the van stolen a week ago.” The look from John was of concern, while Mycroft’s was that of disinterest. “They—”

“No,” Mycroft cut him off. “ _What have they found?_ ” he reiterated, brows raised as he finally turned to Lestrade.

Having made eye contact, the inspector shifted uneasily.

“Sherlock’s mobile,” he responded, forcing himself to not break eye contact. His attempt failed when the other’s expression was unchanging. “Also his coat and scarf…socks and shoes.” The information had John shut his eyes as he shook his head, while Mycroft seemed to stand straighter, if at all possible.

Without saying a word, Mycroft began walking towards the van, which was still being photographed by a crime scene photographer.

Lestrade turned to John, who had also appeared to relax somewhat out of the eldest Holmes’ presence. “Have you gotten word?” he asked, to which John’s shoulders dropped as he shook his head. “Least that explains why the cavalry arrived so fast,” he commented in regard to the eldest Holmes, garnering a small snicker.

“Why would they drive the van into the river, instead of burning it?” John mused, watching Mycroft talk to the photographer. Come to think of it, while he was unaware of names, he had grown familiar with the faces of several crime scene analysts that worked for Scotland Yard and, as he was looking around, came to realize most of the officers did not have that air of familiarity.

“Would’ve drawn too much attention, most likely,” was the response. “Now, unless they had another mode of transportation, it’s unlikely they would have drowned the van and carried a fully-grown man to wherever they’re situated.”

“Meaning we’re looking for evidence of a secondary vehicle?” Lestrade confirmed with an audible noise. “Have they found another set of marks, then?”

Lestrade sighed, his hands going to his hips as he looked around the scene. “That’s where we’re having an issue. There’s one set of tyre marks going into the water, no shoeprints anywhere leaving or arriving. Chances are they put the van in drive, used something to weigh on the treadle and let it roll into the river.”

At the notion that there was nothing to go off, the spirits between them were dropping.

It had been over twelve hours since Sherlock had been abducted and, while the only video was of him being waterboarded, the chances of that having been the only thing they had put Sherlock through did not favour well. After having read what the cartel was known for, and been told more by Mycroft while they were en route to the scene, John’s mind flipped over itself on scenarios his mate had most likely already been subjected to. It had him wondering if Lestrade had been made aware of the group’s involvement.

When Mycroft returned to them, he was holding a plastic bag with Sherlock’s mobile phone. Seeing it, Lestrade held up his hand, his expression becoming serious, albeit somewhat frantic.

“Are you attempting to take evidence from a crime scene?” his demeanour was strict, something that came as a surprise.

Mycroft raised his brows. “Unless you have a manner of extracting information from a sodden mobile, then yes.”

Lestrade’s jaw became taut. “You are not taking anything from my crime scene. I don’t care if you work for the government or if you’re related to Sherlock Holmes. My scene, my rules.” Though it went unnoticed, John’s eyes had gone wide at seeing someone speak to Mycroft, other than Sherlock, with such a directive and he managed to act interested in something other than the conversation. “We have the best tech analysts at Scotland Yard, and if anything can be recovered from that phone, we have the people who can do it.”

He held out his hand as both he and Mycroft locked gazes, as though challenging each other.

Though it was only a few seconds, the air about made it seem minutes.

Finally, Mycroft placed the sealed bag in Lestrade’s open palm; yet, before he released it, said, “If further damage is done, destroying any information that may still be salvageable, I can’t promise London will still be under your ever-watchful eye,” he finished with a calm mien.

When Lestrade nodded, it seemed to be the reassurance Mycroft was searching for and he released his grip.   

The detective inspector put the bagged evidence in the inside pocket of his jacket.

The awkward air was broken by both Lestrade’s and Mycroft’s mobiles going off at the same time. While Mycroft’s was in the form of a call, which he stepped away to take, Lestrade’s was received as a text message. Watching them, John saw Lestrade’s features drop before Mycroft’s, though the detective inspector’s was much more readable.

Lestrade attracted his attention to John, whose expression was filled with curiosity.

“They uploaded a new video,” Lestrade said, his vocals filled with dread as his brows went up.

It appeared that Mycroft was given more information, whereas his shoulders had dropped when he approached them, despite his features reflecting indifference.

“Facial recognition picked up this man,” Mycroft said as he showed Lestrade and John a mugshot of the American from the video on his mobile. “Dreln Mathias Hargett: born in Houston, Texas and arrested for simple possession of narcotics throughout his adolescence. Was given to foster care at the age of thirteen, when he became involved with Cielo Diablos as a falcon before rising to their version of a lieutenant. Despite being on the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s watchlist in the United States, he managed to obtain a passport to leave the country.”

Lestrade furrowed his brows.

“How did our security administration not pick him up when he entered the UK?”

“A falsified passport, using the identity of a Christopher Matthews, who was pronounced dead due to an overdose on cocaine two years prior.” Lestrade rolled his eyes in aggravation, while John pursed his lips, body tensing. Inhaling, Mycroft pocketed his phone before standing straight. “I do believe a new video has been uploaded to SKS. Perhaps we can gain further insight of Sherlock’s location.”

With that, he left their presence, walking towards the black vehicle awaiting his return.

* * *

Pants and grunts filled the room, along with the sound of skin slapping skin, tapping and conversation.

Sherlock’s headspace focused in and out, the mounting pressure in his lower stomach being the only thing that would continually drag him back to reality. He had attempted to take his mind’s advice, but was finding a face to be difficult. At one point, he had imagined the person by his rear to be Mycroft, which took him several attempts to banish before guilt set in that he had imagined his brother at all. John was next, which somehow did make everything a bit more tolerable, even if his mind was in constant dispute.

The conversation that was about in the room had bounced around several times, from Sherlock’s current position to what the group was hoping to gain having Mycroft’s “younger brother” in their possession. Other conversation followed to the import of products and the distribution, which Sherlock had made sure to lock into his memory.

The feeling of warm liquid inside him cut his thoughts short.

His body released a noise as the excess liquid left him, making the feeling of disgust worsen.

“Damn, Sherlock,” came the voice of the American – Dreln – followed by a laugh. “How do you think Mycroft’ll feel seeing his little brother so loose?” Sherlock felt a finger enter his rectum, followed by two more digits. “Fuck…I could probably fit my whole hand in there.” The comment was met by a fourth finger, making Sherlock tense. When a thumb entered him, Dreln followed up with, “I’d love to stick my dick in there, but I don’t fuck whores – might catch something.”

He twisted all five fingers, trying to push his hand inside, each time garnering a painful grunt from the young detective. After a few attempts, his knuckles finally passed Sherlock’s ring, and Sherlock released an unwilling shout of pain. His muscle contacted around the foreign object, which was met with a further intrusion as the American pushed in until his wrist met the base of Sherlock’s anus.

His breath hitched in his throat and a low-pitted whine escaped him.

His muscle throbbed against the man’s hand, a dull pain radiating from his rectum and through his lower back. So when Dreln began pumping his hand in and out, it took all of Sherlock’s self-control to not collapse in a mixture of pained cries and moans, if only to keep his shoulders from dislocating.

“C’mon, Sherlock,” the man said as he wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s hips as he leaned close to his ear. “Scream for me,” he whispered as he pushed in further. Sherlock’s face contorted in pain, veins straining against his neck as he willed everything in his being to refrain from releasing the build-up in his throat. When he failed to get what he wanted, the American began hastily pumping his hand in-and-out.

Body betraying him, Sherlock dropped forward and his arms were twisted up, followed by the sound of a crack as his right shoulder came out of its socket. His vocals were next to follow suit and he began releasing a mixture of shouts and groans. The pressure that had been mounting in his lower abdomen had turned into a sharp pain with each motion. He tried to tune it out, tried to return the place within his mind, but was void when Dreln started twisting his hand inside him, forcing hand and wrist further.

“Holy shit,” the man laughed, going faster. “I wonder if I get to my elbow?”

“Well, don’t destroy him,” interjected another voice, heavy with an Irish accent, as Dreln’s hand began feeling as though it was trying to knock its way to Sherlock’s sigmoid colon. “Don’t want to feel like fuckin’ a sandbag.”

A scoff left the American’s throat. “Please. With your needle-dick, I’m sure that feeling’s frequent.”

There was the sound of something being hit before the echoing of laughter.

“You wanna put your hand in this bitch, too?” Dreln asked as his forced part of his arm in, garnering a shout from the young detective.

“Oh, there’s a lot o’ things I’d love to stick in that arse, but my hand ain’t one.”

“Well, while you’re contemplating, zoom in on this,” he said as he managed to push in half of his forearm, gaining a gasp and yell as a response. “Fuck…I don’t think I can fit anymore. Feel like the circulation’s being cut off from my arm.”

He pulled his arm back and out, Sherlock’s body making a popping sound as the foreign object was extracted. With his upper body on the mattress and his buttocks in the air, Sherlock buried his face into the dirty mattress, hoping he could escape back to his haven. Pain continued to shoot down his right shoulder through his back, while his rectum and abdomen throbbed. With his vision hidden in the darkness, he failed to see the flash of a mobile phone. Shortly after, his hair was grabbed and he was forced to lift his head from the mattress.

Without hesitation, the American’s free hand ran down his cheek and jaw, before his fingers entered his mouth.

“Like how you taste, Sherlock?” It was the smell that hit him before the taste. He gagged when his tongue was pressed down as fingers hit his uvula. His fingers were extracted and he ran his hand down Sherlock’s face. “There,” Dreln said as he stood up as the scent infected the genius’ senses. “Now you can smell like the piece of shit you are.”

Sherlock tried to pull himself back up, but his dislocated shoulder made it impossible and, instead, he was forced to rely on his left arm for support.

Finally given somewhat of a reprieve, he was able to regress into his mind.

Once again, he found himself in his brother’s office.

However, Mycroft was strangely absent.

He looked around, but the office laid barren. Knitting his eyebrows together, he walked behind the desk, where a manila folder was closed. When he opened it, he was introduced to pictures of himself being violated by different people, each one having a close-up. As he flipped through the pictures, he shook his head before closing the folder. He shut his eyes, inhaling. The sound of footsteps from the entryway drew his attention and he pulled his head up, expression curious as the figure of his older brother crossed the threshold.

Upon Mycroft’s entrance, Sherlock moved from behind the desk.

The expression on Mycroft’s features had him confused and he found himself reaching behind him to touch the desk, as if to have a feeling of being grounded.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Myrcroft said as he shook his head, eyes scanning his younger brother up and down. “Look what you’ve allowed to occur.” His expression was that of disgust, causing Sherlock to look down, only to see the front of his shirt and trousers soaked with white liquid. “You’ve had all these men touch you, you can’t possibly believe that none of it’s a fault of your own, can you?”

“But it’s not,” Sherlock said, the disapproving look of his brother meeting his eyes. Sherlock quivered, his forehead creasing as his eyebrows rose. “Mycroft, none of this is a fault of my own.”

Mycroft sighed and approached him, his eyes staring into his younger brother’s. He brought his hand up, holding Sherlock’s cheek. After a sympathetic look, he leaned down, giving the detective a small kiss on his forehead before pulling back, gazing into his eyes.

“Just like when we were younger,” Mycroft said as he caressed his brother’s cheek. “It will always be your fault.”

At the mention, Sherlock found himself as a sixteen-year-old standing in front of a fully-grown Mycroft. With Mycroft’s hand still on his cheek, Sherlock felt his eyes sting.

“That wasn’t me,” he said, voice shaking. “It was you.”

At the response, Mycroft dropped his hand and walked pass him to his desk.

“Do you still believe that after all these years?” Mycroft asked, turning to face him as he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. The expression he gave was the of condescension. “If that were true, little brother, then why did you enjoy it?”  

Sixteen-year-old Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and stepped backwards. He recalled his older brother’s hand on his groin, his teeth on his neck, before running from the office and down the hall. He tripped on the muli-coloured tile, collapsing to all fours as his breath hitched in his throat and water met the floor.


	6. Broken Genus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizations come to light as Sherlock is finally brought to his breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT realize it had been over a damn month since I updated!!  
> I've been gone on a job for weeks, which made it impossible for me to actually sit down and work on this.   
> However, I ended up dislocating my knee while on the job, so now I'm at home on Workman's Comp. (-- --)  
> Leaves me with nothing to do, but this.
> 
> It actually sucks hard, because I enjoy the hell out of my job.   
> But at least that means I get to work on this while I save up for a laptop to actually take with me while I'm gone for weeks at a time. 
> 
> Anywho,  
> I'm SO SORRY it took so long! m(__ __)m  
> And I hope this intense chapter is worth it!!

**6**

**Broken Genus**

The camera used in the video shook as it was taken off the tripod and moved closer to the semen dripping out of Sherlock’s rear. His right cheek was gripped and spread, followed by the American’s voice with, “Mycroft, if you want in on this, give me a call.” The camera was turned, showing the face of the speaker, a smirk on his features. “You know how to find me.”

The video ended with the American grinning at the camera.  

Lestrade’s eyes were enflamed, an incredulous look over him, while John’s entire face was red, his fists clenched. A million emotions flooded through him, not one he dared vocalize, less he became uncontrollable. Rage built inside him as his eyes focused on the grinning face of the American, his mind running over every possible scenario that would lead him to both Sherlock and those in the video. The scenes he played were those even POWs would have found merciful.

Lestrade had made a few audible comments, which the blood pounding in John’s ears drowned out. It was not until Lestrade’s arm knocked into him as he reached to the laptop that John had paid any attention at all.

“Did you catch that?” Lestrade asked as he touched the pad on the laptop, scrolling the video back a bit.

All formality left him and John came out with, “You mean where they violated and ejaculated inside my best friend? Yes, I’m fairly certain I caught that,” he snapped, his head jerking to the detective inspector, jaw clenching.

Lestrade held his hand up, cutting him short.

“No, listen.”

He hit the spacebar to replay the final line:

“ _You know how to find me._ ”

He looked at John, furrowing his brow as he scrolled back to play it again. They met gazes as the speakers echoed:

“ _You know how to find me_.”

He did it one more time, their expressions mirrored each other.

The ire that had built up in the soldier during the video viewing had begun to redirect itself.

Even with all the information against the group, knowing what they were capable of and willing to do, Mycroft had seemed disinterested in assisting his own brother. Now realizing that Mycroft had a way to contact the group all along, and decided to stand-by as his own flesh and blood was subjected to such events, any respect that John had built for the eldest Holmes flickered out.

It made his absence from the police car that much more prevalent.

Before Lestrade could stop him, John had exited the car, steps in haste as he was off to find Mycroft. The detective inspector was after him after slamming the laptop close. He came up on John’s heels right as the man approached the government official standing by the black vehicle they had arrived in.

“You’ve had their contact all along?” John’s voice came out tight, a clear attempt at not shouting as Mycroft turned to face him, his phone at his ear.

Peering down at the soldier’s taught expression, Mycroft spoke to the person on the other line: “Do excuse me. I have a matter to attend to.” He brought the phone from his ear, ending whatever call he had taken. He pocketed his mobile before standing straight, looking at John as though he was an inconvenience. “Is there a problem, Doctor Watson?”

Inhaling in an attempt to compose himself, John came out with, “You’ve had the contact information of the group who took Sherlock all along?”

Mycroft stared at him, his eyebrows moving upwards. “Might I ask why you believe such absurdity?” The reaction in John was apparent. “Doctor Wat—”

“Have you had”—John cut him off—“their contact information?”

Mycroft inhaled, standing straight as he looked down at the shorter man. “Yes.” The comment caused an apparent physical reaction in the doctor. Before John could garner a response, Mycroft fell out with, “I can assure you that Sherlock understands the situation for what it is.” Lestrade had to grab John’s upper arm to keep him from lunging at the government official. “Unlike those who my brother had chosen to surround himself with, he has the mental capacity to grasp the issue at hand and is more than capable of taking on whatever befalls him to ensure what needs to be done is done.”

John managed to break free from the detective inspector.

In an instant, John had Mycroft by the collar of his suit jacket, pushing his back against the car.

“You agreed that we would bring him home,” John’s voice was low, every muscle tense as he refrained from what he had wanted.

“As you would put it, Doctor Watson, it’s for the greater good.”

Seeing Mycroft’s indifferent expression, John had to fight every fibre of his being wishing to treat the eldest Holmes as he deemed fit.

“Sherlock Holmes is the “greatest good” that has ever happened to any one of us. If you’re trying to tell me you’ll let your own flesh and blood go through that and do _nothing_ ”—he spat the last word—“then you might as well be with them.”

With that said, he pushed off from Mycroft, staring at him and his apathetic countenance. Forgoing his instinct, he turned on his heel, footsteps heavy as he walked away.

Lestrade stared after him before turning his attention to Mycroft, whose expression was distant, despite wearing his usual mask. He inhaled, shaking his head on the exhale before following after John, failing to notice the flash of concern across the eldest Holmes’ face.

* * *

A groan escaped Sherlock’s mouth as his hair was pulled and more warm liquid filled him. His rectal cavity throbbed from the abuse, while nail marks and bite marks littered his lower and upper back. Even though he had made several attempts to escape reality while it was happening, he found his efforts failing. Each time he tried, he found himself in Mycroft’s office, being guilt-tripped for what he logically knew was not of his own culpability.

At one point, John was there, shaking his head in disappointment. For reasons Sherlock knew naught, that had pained him much more than the brother he would never admit he looked to.

His head was dropped and it hit the mattress with a padded thud, forcing the pressure back to his dislocated shoulder. His rectum contracted as the liquid dripped down his perineum to his scrotum. The light of the American’s mobile camera had become so frequent, he no longer grimaced at the photographs it took, so when the white flashed against the wall and piping, he paid it no heed, his eyes staring into nothingness at the wall to his left.

Though he refused to acknowledge it, he had become used to the abuse, almost to the point of tuning it out. Had it not have been for the occasional smack or the initial pain of penetration, he could have regressed to his Mind Palace indefinitely.

Something cold and wooden met his inner thigh and he found himself tensing as sharp points met the outside of his anus. At the thought of the object it entering him, which he came to realize was the broken leg of the chair he had shattered earlier, his breath caught and he shut his eyes. However, there was a momentary reprieve when a pair of footsteps approached.

“Care to give me a chance before getting my prick all splintered?” came the familiar voice of the Irishman, who Sherlock could have sworn left the room prior.

There was a snort from the American, who was clearly still by the camera and not the one holding the broken leg by his cavity.

“Finally decided to fist-fuck the bitch?”

There was the sound of laughter.

“Oh, by the Lord, no,” came the comment with a chortle. “I just gotta take a piss.”

There was the sound of shifting, followed up with, “Well, you got his mouth or his ass.”

Finding himself waiting for the laughter signalling the witticism, Sherlock unconsciously tensed when it failed to ring throughout the basement. There was the sound of footsteps right before the mattress shifted.

There was a muffled groan as the Irishman inserted his partially flaccid length into Sherlock, whose body tensed. It took him a minute, but once he was fully in, he placed his left hand on Sherlock’s back and grabbed his hip with the right. Another moment passed before warm liquid began filling him and, though he knew better, the detective tried to pull against the chain holding his wrists to the pipe. The moment he did, pain seared down his back and he stopped, shaking.

He tried to get his mind right, tried to focus on anything other than the humiliation, but his brain would not allow him. All he could focus on was the moment and the pressure mounting in his lower abdomen.

The few seconds felt like minutes before the man retracted himself, moaning in the pleasure of release.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched as his face creased, his throat and eyes begging to release an unfamiliar emotion.

He saw the flash of the camera go off as the urine spilled out of him and he could no longer do it – could no longer hold himself together. His body shook, attempting to not vocalize the emotion he had suppressed for so long.

 “Look at that: he does cry,” came Dreln’s voice next to his head.

The video camera was now in Dreln’s hands, zooming in on Sherlock’s reddened face.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock? You think you’d be used to being a human toilet by now.” The genius refused to open his eyes, not wanting to give the man any more satisfaction as his jaw trembled. “You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but I’m starting to think you were right about your brother not giving a damn about you. I mean”—he shifted to move on the mattress, grabbing Sherlock’s left buttock and exposing him further—“you think he’d respond to at least _one_ of these videos I’ve sent. Holy shit, it’s still coming out. Ugh, that’s gross.” He inserted two of his fingers and pulled, stretching Sherlock and gaining a muffled shout as the a bit more trickled out. “Then again, maybe Mycroft’s getting off on all this. Fucking faggot.”

He extracted his fingers. Yet, before he pulled back, he smacked Sherlock’s cheek and grabbed it, giving it a harsh squeeze and beginning the formation of a new bruise.

As his body pushed out the final bit of urine, Sherlock inhaled, a vocalised cry escaping him.

It was as though that was what his mind was waiting for, his breath shaking as his cry bounced off the cement walls. When he tried to inhale, his nasal passages echoed in the unfamiliarity of inflammation and he found himself face-to-face with the camera once more. It was the first time he was waiting for the American to make a comment, but when nothing but silence followed, all he could focus on was the muted sounds from himself.

The silence from the other men in the room only seemed to cause his reaction to worsen, and as he was still trying to contain his emotional imbalance, all his brain could focus on was the eyes and camera on him, watching him falter – watching and recording the one reaction he thought himself immune to so long ago.


	7. Icebreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John believes he has a lead on Sherlock's location, while his best mate comes to terms with his regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long!!   
> Had some stuff go down in my personal life and have kinda been put on hold. 
> 
> That being said, with Hurricane Florence approaching, my free time kinda opened up.   
> Granted, I don't know how long I'll have power, so I wanted to get this done and uploaded before the inevitable power outages hit. 
> 
> Good news is that major hurricanes mean more jobs in my field. (laughs)  
> Don't hurt me. 
> 
> PLEASE ENJOY!!!!

**7**

**Icebreaker  
**

John had forgone returning with company, instead hailing a hack and choosing to return to Baker Street, though he was certain he had only gone back out of habit rather than want. The anger had somewhat subsided during the ride, which Lestrade had been kind enough to pay the fare. When he exited the cab, he did manage a passable acknowledgement to the cabbie, who bid him a good day before he shut the door. As they drove off, John stared up at the door leading to the flat of 221B, wondering why he chose to come back, knowing that unnerving silence would be the only thing beyond.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, inhaling as he stared at the numbers on the door. Though he knew it was illogical, he found himself hoping to hear Sherlock playing the violin when he opened the door, with the music echoing down the stairs to the ground floor. Yet when he opened the door and heard nothing, a sharp jolt shot to his chest. While he logically knew there would be nothing, his heart could not help but drop at the confirmation.

He was hesitant to ascend the stairs, despite not knowing why.

Outside the door to the flat, his hand hovered over the doorknob. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

The air seemed stale and still.

Scanning the lounge, his gaze lingered on Sherlock’s chair, his chest slowly sinking. It took him a moment to drag his eyes over the couch, where the book Sherlock had been reading the night prior still sat on the cushion. Moving to the couch, he picked the book up, flipping through the pages, eyes catching a few sentences as the paper flittered over each other. He finally stopped on a page where the spine had been creased.

_Four more bodies were recovered in the Des Plaines River near Gacy’s home, which investigators had trouble identifying in the early stages. The river had washed away most of the evidence of the victims’ identities. James Mazzara was removed from the Des Plaines River on December 28 th, his underwear found in his throat. Timothy O’Rourke was another victim later recovered in the river, who was able to be identified by the tattoo on his arm._

His mind was drawn back to the drowned van and everything that had been in it.

From Sherlock’s coat, scarf, socks and shoes to his mobile phone – the one thing he was never without.

Serial killers who planned out their dump sites would not travel too far from their hunting grounds – the places they felt comfortable with. Even a group as dangerous as Cielo Diablos would not be willing to travel outside of their comfort zones – places they believed the police and investigators would not look.

If that were the case, then there was a strong possibility that their base was not too far from where the van had been pulled from the river.

_“_ _Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”_

Sherlock’s words resounded in his mind.

The lack of track marks and footprints.

It started to make sense.

If Sherlock were there, he would have definitely suggested the entire area be scoured and the local buildings be searched. Yet, as he recalled the scene, he knew that had not been brought to the investigators and detectives’ attention; though it did have him question why Mycroft Holmes had not advised and required the local zone be combed. Then again, while Mycroft claimed to be more intelligent than his younger brother, in certain areas, it was clear that his little brother claimed domain.

If they had not already, he had to tell them to search the area – even if Donovan and them would have refused and rebutted, believing it to be a wild goose chase, he knew that Lestrade would do anything and everything to find the young man he had watched after for so long.

* * *

“We managed to retrace the GPS on Freak’s phone,” Donovan said as she handed the clipped papers to Lestrade, who had returned to the precinct after the scene had been cleared and evidence had been sent off. His eyes scanned the first page right as Donovan pulled the second page over. “There was a ninety-second stop near Ebury Square before they started travelling again, losing signal about where it was recovered this morning.”  

Lestrade furrowed his brows, now understanding why there was no secondary vehicle at the scene. The Square was roughly three miles from the flat on Baker Street, and it was rarely empty, and even if it were, it was unlikely the bar across the street would have been. It could have very well meant that a passer-by had been a witness to the young genius being transferred from one vehicle to another without ever realizing what they had seen. Either that or—

“We need the traffic cam footage from that night.” He folded the papers and slipped them into his back pocket.

“Unless it was hacked like the other cameras,” Donovan commented, doubting the reliability. The look she was given was that of confusion, which she mirrored. “The notice this morning?” she drew out. When his expression failed to the change, she remembered that he had been called away to investigate the scene surrounding the van before it had come in. “We got an anonymous call this morning alerting us to a system breach in some of the traffic cameras in London. While they were apparently restored before we were notified, they were hacked around the time of the abduction.” She exhaled and crossed her arms. “But we don’t know how many were hindered or for how long.”

The detective inspector released an audible swear and ran his hand through his hair. With his hands on his hips, he nodded, but still told her to have someone pull the traffic footage in the Ebury area for reassurance. In the meantime, the two of them would go to the sports pub to find out if anyone had been an unknowing witness.

Donovan nearly slammed into John Watson as they were leaving the building.

Before either official could get a word out edgewise, John was speaking in haste, which had both investigators at a loss for words, exchanging confounded expressions. After he told them to search the surrounding buildings and their sub-levels, it took a moment of both investigators trying to interrupt him.

Donovan finally got out, “There are police already canvasing the area,” annoyed at not only having been talked over for the last few seconds, but also having a now-civilian essentially telling them how to do their jobs.

“Not the perimeter,” John cut short. “The surrounding buildings – the basements.”

Donovan made her eye roll apparent. “None of those of structures _have_ basements, John.” The doctor stopped in mid-rebuttal, his brows creasing. “Do you honestly think we didn’t consider that?”

John did not respond.

Any hopes he had for a lead left, his spirits following suit.

Lestrade released a sigh at John’s disheartened expression and demeanour.

“We’re going to find him,” Lestrade’s voice came out reassuring, despite his own false sense of hope. “All evidence points to them still being in London and they’re not going to get away with a bloody thing.” The strict demeanour had John nodding.

Yet, with the understanding that the group had Sherlock held in a sub-level, it appeared that both he and the detective inspector came upon the same conclusion.

Before John could voice it, Lestrade was on the phone, demanding to know every building in the city that had a basement, knowing the numbers would be limited. Though he was certain Donovan meant no ill-will, it was clear that she believed the search to be fruitless, certain that Sherlock was no longer within the limits of London, the group housing him elsewhere. Even if that were the case, it was better to exhaust the other possibilities.

“Great, you’ve done that,” Donovan said as Lestrade brought his phone from his ear. “Now can we please go to the bar and do something that will actually find the freak of nature?”

At Lestrade’s confirmation, John’s disheartened posture was difficult to ignore. Without so much as a glance, she left their presence to pull out the patrol car; meanwhile, the army doctor was searching for other possibilities, his mind turning over itself as every thought that flittered across his mind wound up at a dead end.

“John, go home,” Lestrade said, his voice comforting, yet stern. “Let us work. We will find him – I won’t have it any other way.”

“No,” he shot back. “I can’t sit back and do nothing as while those…bastards have him.”

The expression Lestrade saw etched all over John’s face read more than words could ever give. What he read was something more than concern of a friend, of a comrade. Over the years, the only time he had ever witnessed such determination in both vocals and body language were those who deeply cared for the victim – those who loved—

The sound of sirens echoed as Donovan pulled up the patrol car to the front of the building, before she shut them off, ensuring Lestrade’s attention. The impatience exuded from the car, leaving Lestrade to sigh while John appeared on the edge of breaking.

* * *

Sherlock’s arms fell to his side as the shackles were undone, his right arm immobile as the other was numb from the constricted blood flow. His body screamed at him, while his mind faded in and out. Blood, semen and urine dripped from his anal cavity as splintered wood kept itself held by the muscle, sending sharp pains throughout his lower abdomen and back. The piece of wood was grabbed and pulled out somewhat before being pushed back in, garnering a small whimper from the young genius as the broken wood caused shards to stick inside him.  

Any strength he had left him hours ago and all he could do was allow his body to be manipulated by those around him. He had sworn to himself to not go down without a fight, but all the fight that he held onto vanished as his mind lost the fight against itself.

He finally found himself agreeing with Mycroft’s accusations, how it had been his own fault for the position he found himself in, and that there was no way to escape – no one to come for him. Mycroft would never risk his position to aid someone with such insignificance, that much was certain. It was not as though Sherlock did not understand.

The safety of the nation was more important than one man. With a group as violent and threatening as to what he had experienced, having the like trouncing about the county would only end in the bereavements of thousands.

Even with everything against him, he found his one regret to be something he had never – and would never – openly admitted. Something he had not even admitted to himself until it became too late.

His best mate, the one person who was always there, even when he should not have been.

He had been the only person Sherlock could even think of who he cared more than anyone else, and he had never let on.

With good reason.

Sherlock himself had never been interested in pursuing a relationship and he had made that abundantly clear. As had John with his disinterest in men in totality.

Perhaps it was best that John’s memory of him would be as it was, instead of what was now presented: toiled and used.

His hair was grabbed and pulled, dragging him down and backwards, off of the mattress. The only bit he could muster was grabbing the forearm of the one who hauled him.

Logically, he knew that the freedom he was given would be his one chance to fight and escape, but he was unable to garner the forte. Rather, he had not bothered to exert the vigour. While he had known the outcome once he was made aware of his abduction, the reality took time to set in and he bade it no heed. In the back of his mind, he had been hopeful that help would be sent, and only with it fading did he realize how foolish the thought had been.

He was thrown to the floor, his back meeting the concrete. Before he could roll onto his side, a boot made contact with his dislocated shoulder and pressed down, forcing a pained shout.

“What do you think? We take this arm first?” came the thick Irish accent.

Dreln was in the midst of taking the camera from the tripod.

“And get blood all over my floor? Me thinks not, comrade Cleary.” The comment was met with an unamused expression, while Dreln inspected the camera, ensuring the battery was still charged. “Here.” He tossed the camera to the other man, who caught it without looking. “Do me a favour and charge that for me.”

The Irishman raised his brow and looked down. “Thing’s still got half-a-charge.” Dreln’s response was silence and eye contact. The other shook his head, clearly annoyed. “Fine. Sure you wanna keep him out like this?” he asked, referring to Sherlock as he pressed down on the genius’s shoulder again, getting the same reaction as before.

The American shrugged. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.” He crouched down and grabbed the chair leg, pushing it in a bit further, causing Sherlock’s face to crease as he tried to hold back his vocals. “Besides”—he pulled the leg out harshly, not only garnering a muffled yell, but followed by a trail of blood—“I wanna have some fun with him, too, you know.” He looked up to the man, expression stern. “Keep it quiet from them.”

Even with his state, Sherlock hung on the tone and verbiage. “Them” clearly meant the higher ups Sherlock had met only a few times since his abduction, but the way the American spoke brought rise to more questions. Why trust this one man to oversee, but not allow him to partake? Their early encounter came to his mind, where Dreln had ejaculated inside his mouth and told him not to mention it to anyone else. Thinking back, outside of the waterboarding, the man had not performed any act himself. Not in front of the camera or another person, at least.

The way he spoke to the Irishman – whose last name was Cleary? – as though he could trust the man to stay quiet, had Sherlock curious of their connection.

The Irishman – Cleary – shrugged, shaking his head. “Whatever makes you happy,” he said, voice filled with sarcasm. With that said, he turned on his heel, leaving the room with the camera as the heavy steps of his boots faded out of earshot down the hallway.

Dreln turned to look at the broken man before him, then drew his attention to the chair leg, which had streaks of red down its pattern. It made contact with Sherlock’s face as Dreln wiped it on his cheek, the scent of blood, coitus and urine invading his senses. The American brought the leg back, inspecting it before tossing it off to the side where it clacked on the cement. His attention was back on Sherlock and he leaned over him, setting his hands on both sides of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock closed his eyes as Dreln moved his curls from his face. The tenderness was peculiar, causing the young detective to tense.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to ram my dick into you – make you feel a real American. Seeing everyone else get to have fun, I could make you feel so much better.” Sherlock did not respond, though a comment hid itself in his mind. He felt Dreln shift and opened his eyes to find the man’s knees on each side of him, his groin close to his face. “But I know you’ve just been wanting to taste me again.” He rubbed himself on Sherlock’s face, who turned his head and shut his eyes, doing his best to ignore the comments and act.

It was forgone when the man unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, exposing himself.

He rubbed his partially-hardened length on Sherlock’s cheek.

“C’mon, Sherlock,” he said in a moan, pressing the head of his penis against Sherlock’s lips. “Use that pretty mouth again.”

Though his mind told him otherwise, he found himself opening his mouth, taking in the other’s erection, which became thicker as the warm saliva met it. It only took a few thrusts for it to reach its full size, which was promptly shoved down his throat. As the feeling came back into his left arm, he found himself trying to grab at something – anything – as his breath left him. While his only useful limb pounded, beat and clawed as the man’s back and leg, Dreln held the position, groaning in overexaggerated bliss.

The moment seemed to drag before the obstruction was pulled from his throat, giving him a moment of reprieve. Dreln positioned himself, his hips directly overtop Sherlock’s head as his forearms kept him propped up, allowing him to thrust his hips forward over-and-over, moaning with each lunge. Sherlock gave up trying to push him off, accepting being used like nothing more than a doll as he tried not to gag each time the impediment hit his uvula and further.

It did not take long for the warm liquid of semen to fill his throat, which the man was sure to hold, forcing Sherlock to swallow, before pulling out and sitting back on his heels on Sherlock’s chest. He ran his hand through Sherlock’s matted hair, a strange smile gracing his features.

“I’m gonna miss playing with you, you know,” he said as he tucked himself back into his trousers.

“Wasn’t aware I was going anywhere,” Sherlock spoke, his voice tired and hoarse.

A laugh echoed around the room. “Oh, Sherlock, you innocent thing.” The man stood, making his way back to the mattress and loose shackles. “As much as I like you, the others don’t have the same sentiment. Maybe they’ll let me choose where to put your body parts after they cut you up.”

The comment made his heart sink in his chest, the reality setting in.

His last print on the earth would be of him being beaten and violated by multiple men, his limbs scattered throughout various places around the country. The only thing he found himself hoping was that he would already be dead before they began the dismemberment, though judging by the Irishman’s actions, it was unlikely.

As his mind drifted, the only thing he could think was apologies to the only person he did not want to leave behind.


	8. Blood and the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock runs low and realizations about Sherlock's situation come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HO-LY CRAP.  
> I cannot BELIEVE I pumped out another chapter so soon! (^ v ^)
> 
> I had this idea in my head, sat down and forced myself to work on it with no distractions!  
> I listened to a LOT of Silent Hill music for this.   
> Also some Toni Braxton and Backstreet Boys ballads (yeah, I'm a 90s kid - fight me). 
> 
> Anywho!  
> Some things come to a head here, so please enjoy and let me know your thoughts!! (^ ^*)

**8**

**Blood and the Beast**

Dreln stood leaning against the tripod, which the camera was once again attached to, tapping away on his phone as three others were in the midst of setting down layers of large plastic tarps on the floor. Each of them were suited in white protective suits and gloves. Once the tarps were set down, they lifted the body from where it lay on the concrete and moved it to the centre of the tarp, spreading the limbs in a star formation. Using the top layer of plastic, they wrapped each individual limb before wrapping the torso and head.

As they began cutting into the neck with a hacksaw, the blood that came out was cold and thick, having coagulated and settled hours prior; despite the precaution, blood that was still in the carotid artery spit blood on the white suits, which went ignored as the sound of the saw cutting into bone filled the basement.

Even with his strong stomach, the sound grated on Sherlock’s ears, filling him with a wave of nausea. He tried his best to tune it out, but when he was able to regress to his mind, he found himself back under his brother’s disapproving gaze. Though it would have turned the insides of others, the sounds and smell of the cockney-accented man’s body being cut apart was one he preferred at the moment, even if he knew the same fate awaited him.

The American glanced to him before going back to his phone.

“You could avoid that if your brother would give a shit,” he said, his thumb scrolling through new messages, seemingly immune to the actions and putrid scent.

Sherlock stayed silent, his brain wrapping around the comment that bade truth.

Though he knew that Mycroft would never risk security, the back of his mind begged to release the unfamiliar emotion at the presented datum.

“Oh, I have an idea,” the American said as he pointed his phone’s camera towards Sherlock with the men dismembering the body behind him, snapping a picture. He turned his focus back to his phone. “Maybe this will get his attention.” A sudden laugh escaped him, one that was overly exaggerated and even garnered the look of those busy cutting up the body. “Hey!” he called to them, still in mid-laugh. “Think Mycroft Holmes would give a shit if we cut up his brother while he’s still kicking?”

One of the men, who was unrecognizable amongst the garb, stood with the hack saw in hand, walking over. They leaned down and grabbed Sherlock by the hair, lifting him up and pressing the saw against his throat as Sherlock reached to grab the man’s forearm with his only working arm. “Let’s find out,” came the familiar voice of the man who once donned a black tank-top and brown cargo pants.

With the hacksaw still on Sherlock’s neck, he pulled it back, creating a jagged cut on the exposed skin. Blood immediately began to drip down his neck, causing his fight or flight instinct to take hold. His hand went from grabbing at the man’s wrist gripping his hair to the hand holding the saw. While his vocals stayed predominately silent, his facial expressions grew frantic, his good leg kicking about as the hacksaw managed to draw forward, cutting deeper.

All-the-while, the camera had been taken off the stand to focus on him.

As the third cut drew, he could no longer hold back and began shouting as he tried to pull the man’s arm away.

When his vocals broke, everyone in the vicinity started laughing.

He was thrown back to the floor as the man went back to the deceased, whose neck was only held on by skin and sinew.

Sherlock fell, his body curling against itself as the sounds of dismemberment continued.

Even against his will, he found himself back in Mycroft’s office, curled into the foetal position on the office floor. With his fear breaking around him, the office morphed along with him. The painting of the Queen had deteriorated with the oils running down the portrait, the desk had rotted, the lamp had rusted along with the chairs – nothing seemed right. He lifted his head off the floor when the silence echoed around him.

He reached out to grab the chair and pull himself up, taking in his surroundings and listening for the sounds to ensure he was not alone, though there were none. Behind him, the door to the office was closed. Approaching it, he reached out to grab the handle, only to realize there was not one. His chest tightened and he turned around, his stomach immediately lurching.

On the desk was the deceased’s severed head, blood pooling on the desk and dripping over the edge to the floor. In one chair sat the severed limbs, the torso in the other, each dripping red. Slowly and hesitantly, he inched towards the head, his jaw tight and eyes focused. When he passed the chair harbouring the limbs, the severed arm reached out for his leg, causing him to jump and take his attention from the desk. He glanced back to it, only to see it was gone.

Uncertain as to why, he began looking around in an odd panic, failing to see the decaying eyes of the portrait staring down at him. As he began backing up towards the door, his foot kicked something heavy. Looking down, he saw something wrapped in clear plastic. Nudging it with his foot to turn it over, his own severed head stared back at him from inside the wrappings.

In an instant, he hit the floor, dragging himself back towards the door, pressing against it, eyes focused on his own dead expression as his heart pounded viciously in his chest. His breath was rapid, his ducts betraying him.

He shook his head, tearing his gaze away and shutting his eyes.

Something had gone very wrong and he found himself calling out familiar names.

Suddenly, a loud noise emanated from the direction of the head, cutting through the silence and pulling Sherlock back to reality.

He turned his head to see the man from earlier taking off one of his gloves and unzipping his blood-smeared protective suit, revealing the same black tank-top and top part of the cargo shorts. He reached beyond his waistband, pulling out his mobile phone, which was ringing a high-pitched screech.

The man stepped over the body, which was now missing its head, both arms and one leg, unlocking his phone and bringing it to his ear.

“In the middle of something, so this better be good,” he said in annoyance, pulling down his mask. There was a pause, the only sound being the occasional tapping on the American’s phone. “I don’t give a fuck what you do. I’m already in the middle of cutting up one prick, so I might as well make it a two for one.”

The comment had Sherlock’s heart thud, but he paid it no heed, while the American discreetly glanced up from his phone.

“Do I look like a fucking pikey to you? You could offer Parliament and my words will be the exact same. Now do me a favour and piss off.” He slammed his thumb down the “End Call” button, inhaling and exhaling an aggravated breath.

“Oh, daddy’s mad,” Dreln snickered as he glanced to other, who shoved his phone back in his pocket and zipped his suit back.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped as he snatched his glove from the hand that was offering it back to him by the partially dismembered body. “Why don’t you actually make yourself useful and help cut up this asshole?”

“I’d love to, but you know me. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” Dreln went back to his phone.

“Tell that to his arse,” the voice of the Irishman spoke from behind his surgical mask, to which Dreln laughed with a wave, not even glancing up as his fingers tapped away.

As the man picked up the hacksaw, his eyes were on Dreln. “Awful lot of things you don’t like doing, it seems. All you do is text on your goddamn phone all day. Who, might I ask, is that bloody important?”

Dreln looked at him, expression unchanging. “No one you need to know.” At the look he was given, he shrugged. “You’ve got things to take care of here, while I have to make sure y’all’s asses are covered in case shit goes south. But if you want to have to deal with that instead, by all means, let’s trade off.” He held out his phone, offering it.

However, the other rolled their eyes and knelt back down by the body, bringing up the saw and continuing with the final limb. Satisfied, the American brought his phone back to him and continued scrolling and sending out messages.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was filing away the entire conversation, in the off-chance he would see the light of day again. As his brain ran over the mobile discussion, it latched onto the phone call. The group had made it abundantly clear that they the only reason they had him at all was to gain leverage against Mycroft; though unlike his brother, Sherlock knew there would be no barter. Even still, his attention hung on the words exchanged, giving his mind something to latch onto.

* * *

The sun was setting as the patrol car pulled up outside of the sports pub with John Watson in the back seat. He had demanded to come along, despite Donovan’s obvious disapproval and Lestrade having rather had him stay behind. Before either of them could voice their further discontent, John had holed up in the back seat, saying they might as well go, since he was not going anywhere.

The two investigators exited the vehicle, with Lestrade releasing a sigh.

“Do you really think they saw anything?” Donovan asked, walking around the vehicle to her superior’s side as John got out.

“Well, given that Sherlock was abducted around this time last night, at least one person has to have the same shift. Besides,” he said as he looked around the building’s exterior. “The traffic cameras may have been hacked, but I’m betting that those weren’t.” Donovan looked to where Lestrade was motioning.

Three security cameras were on the outside of the building, one facing the door, one facing down the sidewalk and the other pointed towards Ebury Square. Donovan seemed more apt to agree with the proposal that she had about fetching the possibly-corrupt traffic camera footage.

While Lestrade and Donovan entered the bar, John’s eyes caught a familiar stature across the street at the Square as went to follow. He watched the person, ensuring that he was seeing who he thought, and that his eyes were not deceiving him. Turning to see the two investigators approach the bar, appearing to not have even noticed his absence, he made his away across the road.

The closer he got, the more inquisitive he became.

What were they doing there and why did they not alert anyone?

What he came upon was Mycroft holding his phone, staring down at the screen, his brow line furrowed in what John could have mistaken for confusion.

Despite the Holmes brother’s constant spatial awareness, he failed to see John approaching, even when John stood mere feet away. He cleared his throat, but still went unnoticed. He pursed his lips together, cocking his neck to get a better look at Mycroft’s expression and what was causing one of the men who observed everything to observe nothing. The longer John watched him, the more curiosity and concern waved over him: the look on the eldest Holmes’ face had changed from confusion to fear, apprehension and overall loss.

Finally, he turned his attention, his brows up and causing creases in his forehead.

“I’ve tried everything,” Mycroft spoke, his eyes darting in front of him as though searching for something unknown and unaware of where he stood and who stood by him. “They never intended to release Sherlock and I don’t know what to do.”

It was the first time John had ever seen the older Holmes vulnerable, desperate and pleading.

At the statement, John’s own brow furrowed.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, questioning if Mycroft even registered that he was there at all.

“I’ve offered to release the Cielo Diablos members currently in our custody, travel, money, immunity – everything.” His gaze finally met John’s, whose were filling slowly with understanding.

The animosity John had been feeling towards Mycroft dwindled, regret seeping into his chest at his outbursts and belief that Sherlock’s own brother cared naught of his own blood. The way Mycroft spoke, it was beginning to become clear that the government official had been negotiating for his brother’s safe return the moment he was made aware of the abduction. His flippant demeanour had started to make sense. Probabilities were that he had been making the group proposals that had not been – and would not have been – approved; propositions that could have had him incarcerated if they had been found out or accepted.

John could see Mycroft’s brain working against him. Despite always proclaiming that he lacked the “emotional hindrance” of his younger brother, the prospect of losing that brother would be the one thing to tear down the wall he had spent many years building.

“Mycroft,” John’s words spoke through the unnerving quiet between them. While the official looked at him, John questioned if he was paying the slightest bit of attention. “Think. They have Sherlock in a basement – a basement in London. There can’t be very many of those.”

It took a moment for Mycroft to register the words being spoken, but when his mind appeared to come back online, his posture changed. He glanced to the phone in his hand before changing screens, inputting a number and bringing it to his ear. Whoever picked up on the other end was met with Mycroft’s calm composure, requesting locations of all building within the city limits with substructures. After he hung up, it was only a few moments before his phone signalled new messages.

On the screen was a list of the requested.

The only qualm was not knowing where to begin.  


	9. Black Cab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes the weight of the situation and goes off on his own to find his best mate.  
> Meanwhile, Sherlock is given an ultimatum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...took WAY too long and, for that, I'm SO SORRY. m(__ __)m  
> After pumping out two chapters in just a few days, my brain short circuited. 
> 
> Also, I had two scenarios in my head on how to do this chapter.  
> I fought with myself on which one to do, but after all the foreshadowing, I decided this was the best course of action. 
> 
> That being said, I REALLY hope you all enjoy this chapter!  
> And please let me know what you think!! (^ ^*)

**9  
Black Cab**

A black van pulled alongside a dark blue people carrier, stopping for several seconds before the headlights turned off and whoever was in the front seat stepped out. They were donning what appeared to be a dark tank top and lighter trousers, though the colours and types were unable to be made out. From the dark blue vehicle, which had been idle for quite a while, emerged a much broader individual, their entire ensemble black. The duo stood exchanging words before the slender man slid open the side door to the van.

There was a moment’s pause as he leaned into the van, before he stepped back, carrying someone’s legs. The other individual opened the side door to the people carrier, while another person exited the van, hauling the upper body of an apparent unconscious man. Upon closer inspection, the dark trousers and long-sleeved shirt, along with the mat of dark, curly hair, made no mistake that it was the young genius Sherlock Holmes.

After manoeuvring the body into the back seat, the person who had climbed out of the back of the van approached the driver of the blue people carrier. There was another verbal exchange before they got into the driver’s seat of the smaller vehicle. The vehicle started up and drove off, turning right at the intersection out front of the sports pub; meanwhile, the other two returned to the front of the van, the man with the tank top getting into the driver’s seat. Leaving the Square, they made a right along with the other, heading towards the river.

The recording was cut off and Lestrade leaned back in the foldout chair, releasing a breath as he set his hands on the back of his neck. Donovan stood behind him with one hand on the back of the chair and other on the desk as she leaned forward to view the footage. Even as one who always claimed to disagree and distrust the young genius, even her demeanour was tense, he shoulders taught, along with her jaw. It was as though her speculation had fallen through, and even she was beginning to feel the weight of the situation.

The sound of Lestrade’s mobile broke the tension.

As he pulled it out of his pocket, Donovan’s began ringing.

On the screen was a list of addresses of buildings that contained sub-levels.

“Get a copy of this – we need the identity of those men,” Lestrade said to Donovan as he stood up, opening the number pad on his phone. Bringing the phone to his ear after punching in the digits, his voice broke through the receiver. “How many of those structures are near the river?” A pause as he left the room, leaving his sergeant to send the footage. “I know you sent the locations, but time is of the essence, so update it!” He barely acknowledged the manager of the pub as he passed the bar, leaving the pub to the sidewalk. “Then you have my apology, now just do it.” He hung up in obvious frustration.

Setting his hands on his hips, he shook his head. However, his attention was drawn to John Watson jogging up to him and shoving a slip of paper against his chest. He took it as John pulled his hand back.  

“They have Sherlock in a basement and this is a list of every one in London,” he said as Lestrade looked at the paper, which had an identical list to that on his phone. “If we narrow it down—”

“We’re already on it,” he cut John short, handing John back the slip. “Going by the footage, they’re held up in the direction of the river.”

The words caught John off guard, his expression confused as his brain pieced the information. As though a million and one ideas ran through his head before he seemed to land on one in particular. His change in demeanour had Lestrade knit his brows together, but John only came out with;

“Right.”

Before the detective inspector could get a word out edgewise, John turned and began walking away. He exhaled, turning just as Donovan exited the pub, a memory drive in her hand.

“E-mailed the footage to Harrison, but having a hardcopy is always preferable,” she said as she handed him the drive. “What’s the matter?” she asked, seeing his concerned look.

He shook his head, banishing the thought. “I’m waiting on a list of sub-levels near the river.” She nodded, though her expression still read curiosity.

As she was about to inquire, a noise sounded between them.

Lestrade looked down at his mobile, expecting a list. Instead, it was a notification from their tech-analyst, saying there had been another video upload. Heart thudding in his chest, he unlocked his phone and clicked on the link provided in the text.

It loaded the page, the screenshot that of a man’s exposed rear.

In an instant, his heart sunk to his stomach.

Meanwhile, John was reviewing what he knew: they had Sherlock in a basement near the river, but the location the sunken van was recovered did not have a building with a basement in the surrounding area. Logic dictated that his mate was held in the closest building with a sub-level, even if it was several kilometres from the dumpsite.

The time of working with Scotland Yard had come to an end for him, having been dismissed several times before. Though he knew Lestrade wanted nothing more than to find the young genius, his position would not allow him to handle the situation as he wished, and giving the detective inspector an insight into his own forethought would most likely put Sherlock in an even more detrimental position. With the group monitoring Mycroft, it was only understandable that they most likely had Scotland Yard under surveillance, as well. If they even had an inkling that officials were about to close in, they would most likely cut off any loose ends and jump ship.

He had to find him before that.

Reaching into his pocket, his pulled out the slip of paper Lestrade returned, with each sub-level in London listed. With where the van was located, the closest building with a basement was a little over a kilometre.

A block down, he was able to hail a cab, choosing to ignore the look he was given when he gave the cabbie the address.

* * *

The final bit of blood-stained plastic was removed from the room, leaving Sherlock with nothing more than the haunting reminder and heavy scent of putrid blood. The fever that had been slowing inching its way through his body had finally taken hold and he found himself cold, his innards throbbing between dull and sharp pains.

Many times, he had found himself in life-threatening situations, but there had always been a way out – an alternate solution. For the first time, his logic had failed. All of his hope had to be placed in the external, something he knew was unreliable and relied on chance; yet, all of the chance cards he had once held were confiscated and he was left with the solemn realization that his moments were few.

Left to die, his limbs strewn throughout the country, with his final thoughts never to be realized.

His apologies.

Heavy footsteps invaded his thoughts and he shut his eyes, expecting all that was to come.

“I’ve got some news,” Dreln said as he crouched down next to him. “My boss isn’t happy with your progress, which means he’s not happy with me.”

“Distressing,” came the nonchalant comment.

“You see, that’s the issue at hand.” He inhaled deeply before exhaling and giving the detective a sympathetic expression. “They’re ready to cut ties, Sherlock – thinking about sending your head to your brother in a gift-wrapped box. Though I did see the design. It would be a rather beautiful box.”

Though he had already known how he would end, realizing his time had finally come to a screeching halt had his entire being fall. Despite understanding Mycroft’s reasonings for not giving to their demands, his emotions took over and he felt his eyes burn beneath his lids. The brother he would never admit he respected and looked to was the very reason they would never see each other in the waking world.

In his bowels, he felt a hint of anger overwrought by depression.

“You have my apologies, Sherlock Holmes,” the American said as he set his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “But if it’s any consolation, I can give you the choice of how you die.”

The pause was one to drive Sherlock to madness.

It was apparent Dreln was waiting for his response, which had Sherlock follow with, “Get on with it, then,” his vocals steady despite the hard pounding in his chest and stomach.

The American brought his fingers to Sherlock’s throat.

“Either Frankie and them can kill you painfully or”—he grabbed Sherlock’s throat without applying pressure—“you let me do the honour, which, let’s face it, will be much faster and less painful than what they have in store. And believe me, their way includes a lot of bloodshed. I mean… _a lot_.”

The name “Frankie” sunk into Sherlock’s head. Yet, as his brain filed it away, he wondered why he even bothered marking it something to be remembered.

His will to live and overall submission were in discrepancy.

While his self-preservation begged to hold out, his logic took hold and he knew that the ultimatum the American gave him would only be offered once. If he chose to forgo the offer, nothing but pain and death awaited; however, if he accepted, while death was inevitable, the pain could, for the most part, be forgone. Being suffocated in the past proved that there would be some discomfort, but it would be short, a few minutes at most.

Versed the alternative, which he knew included a live dismemberment.

Here he had the option of how to die, and while neither leaned towards how he expected, he knew when to accept a better proposal.

Survival be damned, he inhaled and finally opened his eyes, glancing sideways to make eye contact. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him, but he knew it to be for naught and he found himself nodding, his facial expression giving way.

“Be quick, won’t you?” he said, his voice breaking.

“As quick as it can be.” Dreln shifted, his hand leaving Sherlock’s forehead to run down his cheek. “I really was hoping to see you make it, you know,” Dreln said as he straddled Sherlock’s hips, bringing his hand to trace Sherlock’s neck. “It’s a shame, really, someone like you going to waste.” He began adding pressure, leaving Sherlock to shut his eyes as he tried to make his final thoughts memorable.

It only took a few seconds without oxygen before his only good arm tried to fight back out of survival. It was easily halted as Dreln grabbed his already broken wrist and pinned it to the ground, leaning forward with his face mere inches from his own. With his blood pounding in his ears, he only caught the words “damn” and “beautiful” before the sensation of Dreln’s mouth on his own.

White shots of light began flashing before his eyes as the physical contact began to distance itself.

His mind sunk back into itself, leaving him on the floor in the room. As he looked around, he saw both his brother and his best mate watching. While John’s look was compassionate, Mycroft’s was that of disappointment. He knew his eyes were red, his face sunken and being broken. He made eye contact with both of them before landing on John’s gaze, those eyes that he had become so accustomed to over the years without ever realizing. Seeing the expression he would have expected on his best mate’s features given the situation was one to make him break.

Body unable to move, he felt his eyes burn.

“I’m sorry, John,” he came out with, his voice distant. Though he expected a form of malice, there was none. Instead, he could only watch through his broken body as John came to kneel beside him and set his hand on his head as his other reached for the younger man’s hand. His being broke and he found himself reliving the unfamiliar emotion. Inhaling sharply, with John’s fingers running through his hair, he could barely say, “Please…stay with me.”

As his mind’s rendition of John nodded, Sherlock shut his eyes, his own heartbeat invading his ears.

His final moments began to slip, his final regrets.

The moments he knew had come to an end.


	10. Faithful John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John manages to find the hideout of the Cielo Diablos members who have Sherlock in their hold, causing his Army training to manifest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working like hell on this chapter.   
> Once I really started, I couldn't stop. 
> 
> Working solely with John was interesting and kinda fun.   
> That being said, I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I have writing. (^ ^*)

**10**

**Faithful John**

The annoyance was apparent with the cabbie as John climbed back into the rear seat, giving him yet another address. It was the fourth time John had been driven to an inaccurate location, where there was nothing more than waterfront businesses. With the aggravation of the cab driver clear, John had to offer him more than the metre was reading, which even he was uncertain whether or not he could afford.

Either way, the lie was justifiable if it meant finding the man he so desperately sought.

They passed several familiar locations before the cabbie turned onto a street that quickly turned dead. Though the driver was waiting for his customer to comment that they were clearly moving in the wrong direction, his body language spoke volumes when John stayed silent, his eyes tracing over the written list of buildings containing basements.

Sherlock was in one of them and he was determined to find him, no matter the cost.

His mobile began vibrating.

Pulling it from his pocket, the screen only read “Unknown Caller” against a black screen. While he would have ignored it on any other occasion, the situation at hand made him accept the call.

“Hello?” he queried as he brought his phone to his ear.

“We’ve surveyed the locations,” came the voice of Mycroft Holmes from the receiving end. Hearing the familiar voice had John release a breath in a mixture of relief and frustration. “We’ve searched all but one possibility – a building near Southbank Centre.” John glanced to his list and out the window, the location being the very one he was pulling up to. “Doctor Watson, I require your medical expertise, given that Sherlock will undoubtedly require immediate medical attention upon recovery.”

There was silence over the line as John took in the information.

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft’s voice broke through.

John made an audible noise as he directed his attention to the cabbie.

“That’s where I’m at, actually,” he said, motioning to the cabbie to stop short of the location.

There was another pause over the line before Mycroft fell out with, “John, do not confront them,” his voice strict and commanding. “They will—”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he cut the eldest Holmes off as he brought his mobile down, pressing the button to end the call.

The cabbie halted his car near an abandoned building littered with graffiti.

A few people walked by, which was expected given the time. With the sun since set, he realized it was close to the time of night Sherlock had been abducted the night prior.

It had been nearly twenty-four hours.

A timeframe which people in the criminal justice field would have no longer expected to find the target alive, given that most victims were killed within the first twenty-four hours. He shook the thought and left the cab.

“Shall I wait?” the cabbie asked full of sarcasm, expecting to be left with an idling vehicle one again.

John shook his head. “Uh, no.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, taking out whatever money he had to give to the man. “Thank you,” he said as his mind wandered elsewhere and he gave the cabbie the fare. He did not even wait for the man to count it, or if he even had enough, his train of thought focused on finding his best mate and ensuring those who abducted him were well-beyond incapacitation. With his mind trained, he failed to hear the cabbie calling out his change, the sounds surrounding him seeming to vanish as he walked forward.

Adrenaline coursed through him as he came closer and the presence of pedestrians dwindled to naught. He was only a few feet from the address, outside of a building that was long rundown with boarded windows and neon graffiti, when he stopped short, scanning the exterior. Military training taking over, he made a note of the possible entry and exit points, including windows that could easily be broken through in case of an emergency escape.

Movement caught his attention of a man descending the couple of steps from the front door. Their features struck a familiar chord and it took him a moment to place why. Watching the man light up a cigarette and hit it a few times, the familiarity registered.

It was the same man he witnessed violate Sherlock in the second video.

It took a mere moment to formulate an approach. Inhaling and standing straight, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began approaching. The man barely acknowledged him as he got close, most likely used to random passer-by staring up at the structure.

“Hey,” he called to him, drawing his attention. “Mind if I get a fag?”

It was apparent the man was on immediate edge, but given John’s nonchalant tone and demeanour, he took another drag before nodding. “Sure,” he responded as he held his cigarette in his mouth and pulled his pack out. Offering one to John, the Army doctor gave it a once-over before putting the end in his mouth. He acted to search his pockets, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “Need a light, then?” The man reached into the pocket of his brown hooded sweatshirt, pulling out his lighter and offering it.

“Appreciate it,” John said as he accepted the offer. Once lit, he passed the lighter back, taking a drag without inhaling. He took the fag from his lips, staring at it as he exhaled the smoke. “It’s quiet out tonight, isn’t it?”

“More or less,” was the immediate response, the man taking another drag from his own cigarette, not bothering to look in John’s direction, instead focusing on peering down the walkways for other life.

“Not many people seem to come this way,” John commented, getting a grunt in reply. “It would be rather easy to say…hide someone.” The comment drew the man’s attention, as John continued to act interested in the lit tobacco, the ash on the end extending. He finally brought his gaze to meet the man’s, who started to realize the situation.

Before he could draw his apparent weapon, John flicked the built-up ash into his eyes and lunged at him, hooking his arm around the man’s neck as he moved behind him. His other arm wrapped around the man’s head as the other tried and failed to escape.

“You’ll never touch him again,” his voice was low into the man’s ear, who continued to beat on the arms restraining him. With his jaw taut, John reached a crossroads: whether to allow the man to pass out or to break the weak structure of the neck. As his morality spoke to him, the image of seeing the man ramming himself into Sherlock over and over with complete disregard overran any compassion he might have held onto and every bit of his background took over.

In an instant, he pulled his hands in opposite directions.

The man’s neck snapped, his body falling limp in his grasp.

With his adrenaline coursing through him, his senses went into overdrive, a feeling he had not experienced since the time he met Sherlock and had to save him from his own arrogance. It was a wave of clarity.

He moved the man’s body around the side of the building, positioning him in a way he could have been mistaken as sleeping. Once set, he searched the pockets and waistband, finding a walkie-talkie and a pocket knife – the apparent weapon they had been reaching for. He took both, along with the man’s hooded sweater, and returned to the outside of the main entrance where he found the door propped open by a small piece of wood. He entered quietly as he put the sweater over his light jacket, uncertain as to who would be on the other end, making sure to keep the wood block in place, understanding the door would lock when fully shut; and with Mycroft, and he was certain Lestrade by that point, en route, leaving the entrance unhindered was within their best interests.

Inside, the entryway laid barren. An old counter was in the centre of the tiled room, with debris on the floor and graffiti on the chipped walls. Lights from streetlamps leaked into the broken windows above, giving a fair amount of light into the large room. To the left and right were a set of stairs that wrapped along the walls, leading to a second floor. Behind the glass counter was a hallway that light was only barely able to penetrate, while at the bottom of the left set of stairs was a wooden door. Going with his instincts, he moved behind the counter and underneath the stairs. It was not until he was under the overhead when he was able to hear the faint sound of voices.

With the limited light from the windows on the front of the building, John was able to make out another hall, with a door at each end. The one to his right was closed, but he could see a faint light emitting underneath. Moving closer, he could make out quiet speech.

“—bored.”

“Always the same thing. You’re getting old.” There was a pause as John made his way closer to the door, contemplating whether or not to step through and take his chances. “So go downstairs and have some fun – only thing that keeps any of us entertained these days.”

Another pause as John moved his hand under the sweatshirt and his jacket to grip the handle of his issued weapon.

“No offence, but that’s never been my thing.” The person’s accent very much foreign, one John had trouble placing, but it was ignored by the sound of someone snorting. “If Francis and Dreln wanna do their thing, I’ve no qualms, but I’ll have no part in it. I just want to get this next shipment in and do what we’re supposed to be doing.” There was a low comment that John could not make out, but it was followed up with, “Better than that standoff we had in Texas a few years ago.” The comment made him realize the accent: Mexican, most likely one of the original members of Cielo Diablos.

It was the confirmation he did not know he needed: he had found them – found the people who held his best mate. He took his hand from his hilt of his weapon, eyes moving to the door at the opposite end. With their voices fading, he made his way over, gripping the handle and slowly inching it open. He did not know what he was expecting.

A group of people?

A stash of drugs?

A gaping hole leading well below ground?

The door led to nothing more than a room containing a desk, an old filing cabinet and a door to the left – the door which had a light glowing from underneath. Hand back on his weapon, he approached the door and reached for the handle. With one more inhale, he turned it and swung the door open.

His shoulders dropped and he shut his eyes, head shaking as he was introduced to nothing more than a janitorial closet with its light turned on. Closing it quietly, he glanced back to the door he came through. There was a sub-level beneath the structure, he just had to find it. Given the dead end, logic dictated the stairway to the sub-level was beyond the door that held the two people he had been overhearing. Any chance of avoiding confrontation dwindled. The door shut softly behind him and he crossed the hall to the opposite door, where he could still hear the two talking.

“—to smoke a cigarette,” the non-native was caught through the doorway.

“I don’t know, but he needs to get back, because I really gotta take a piss.”

Then again, perhaps he would not have to confront them both, after all.

“Could always go downstairs and do was Cleary did.” There was the sound of retching as a response.

If they separated, it would make his infiltration much simpler; he just had to hope they would, if even to check on their missing ally.

“Ain’t no fucking way. Even I felt bad for the poor sod when I heard he did that.”

John’s heart thudded in his chest, knowing they were referring to Sherlock. The caught conversation made his anger rise and he had to resist the desire to slam the door open and take full control of the situation, disregarding any ill will that would be thrust upon him. It was forgone as he heard shuffling moving closer to the door.

In an instant, he fell back from the entryway and moved into the barely lit hall underneath the stairwells, hiding himself in the shadows just as the door was pushed opened. The shadow of the man was cast by the light of the room behind him as he rounded the corner to move down the hallway. John flattened himself against the wall and watched as the man came towards him, blissfully unaware of his presence. The moment he passed him, John came up behind him, pressing his left hand against his mouth and right arm over his throat. Even with the man struggling, his vocals unable to escape the pressure, John held fast, expression oddly calm as he tightened his grip around the man’s throat.

It only took a few moments before the man’s struggling became less apparent, limbs ultimately falling. John gave it another minute to ensure the man was fully incapacitated before he released his grip and gently lowered the man to the floor.

Inhaling, he made his way back to the door.

Hoping his idea would work, he shoved his hands into the front pocket of the sweatshirt, dropping his posture as he came in view of the entryway. He saw the broken wooden desk in the centre of the room, the large window on the left wall and doorway at the far end. Immediately, the Mexican man stood straight, his hand reaching behind him for what John suspected was a firearm. The suspicions were confirmed when he entered the room to come face-to-face with a loaded 9mm Glock.

“The hell you on about?” he asked in an annoyed manner, his posture mimicking his tone.

“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded, finger tracing the trigger of his weapon.

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Francis said he’d let you know I was coming.” The man eyed him suspiciously, questioning whether or not to take his word. When John saw the man’s arm relax, though not direct the gun away from him, he raised his brows. “Said I could have some fun with the piece of shit downstairs.”

At the comment, the man lowered his weapon, obvious discontent on his face.

They waved the weapon before putting it back behind them. “Yeah, whatever.” Their annoyance was clear. Whether it was because of the request or because of the unfamiliarity, he was unsure. Either way, it granted the passage he wanted.

He crossed the room to the entryway lacking any form of barrier.

Before he stepped through the threshold, the man called him back.

“What was Mikey doing when you got here?” he asked.

John turned to look at him, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Said he was going to get a pack of fags and would be right back.” The man rolled his eyes, aggravation apparent at the information. Giving another shrug at being waved off, John moved down the hallway.

There was a closet to his left, which he assumed was another janitorial closet. In front of him was a spiral stairwell leading downwards. Inhaling, he took the first step, his shoes crunching on broken glass. He was halfway down the stairwell when there was a shadow on the wall, cuing someone ascending. He stopped short just in time to see the familiar figure of Dreln Hargett.

Sensing another presence, Dreln looked up from his mobile, staring up at John. His expression was curious, as though he was trying to understand where he recognized John. At the same moment, John’s initial reaction was to bring the man to knees, forcing him to make amends with everything he had done to his partner. Just as quickly, the understanding that causing such a commotion would draw the attention of the man upstairs.

Before the American could get a word out, John blurted out, “Cleary sent me.”

Eyebrows knitting together, it was apparent Dreln was studying John. Inwardly, the Army doctor tensed, wondering if the foreigner had realized who he was. What could have only been a few seconds seemed to turn into minutes as the American released an aggravated sigh.

“Fucking asshole can’t keep his mouth shut.” He made eye contact with John. “Have all the fun you want, ‘cause he ain’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

He pushed passed John, who stared up after him, eyebrows furrowed at the wording.

Shaking his thoughts, he returned his attention to the descending stairway.

After the next few steps, the crunching of glass ceased and he was left with nothing more than the metal grating. At the end, he noticed another door to his right. Its wood was painted black. Along with the colouring and rotting wood, it would have been easily missed had it not have been searched for. While curiosity wondered where it led, he ignored it, his will drawing him to a dimly-lit entryway only a few steps further.  

The moment he crossed the threshold into the basement, the pungent scent of blood and decay filled his nostrils, one he had not experienced since his time Overseas. Upon entering, the first thing he noticed was a torn and beaten mattress in the back corner before his eyes traced the room to the familiar figure of his best mate.

“Sherlock,” he barely managed as he approached, his heart falling to his stomach and nausea rising in his throat as he fell to a kneel beside him.

For the first time, his hands were shaking as he reached down to Sherlock’s carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. Sherlock’s face was bloodied and swollen, dried semen clinging to his hair and cheeks, his lips tinted a light shade of blue. When he failed to pick up a pulse, John could feel his eyes burning.

“No. No – no – no – Sherlock, don’t you dare,” he spoke in haste, leaning back on his heels. He gripped the sides of the man’s shirt on his breast, pulling it apart, the buttons popping off in random directions as his chest was bared. Lacing his fingers overtop each other, he began pressing the heel of his palm over Sherlock’s breastbone. “You can’t leave me like this, you bastard, come on.” Using his own bodyweight, he started compressions, eyes on Sherlock’s face, waiting for a semblance of life.

After the initial compressions, he pinched Sherlock’s nose and met their mouths, breathing into his counterpart’s lungs before quickly going back to pressing in rhythm on his chest. “Please don’t go, please,” he found himself begging as his motions became more erratic and desperate.

He was uncertain how long he spent trying to get his best mate’s heart to start, how many times he attempted to breathe life back into him; however, the next thing he knew, he felt a grip around his shoulders and he was being pulled away towards the door. His limbs flailed as he tried to get away, his attention focused on Sherlock, who was now being flanked by two men dressed in blue and white. Even as one of the men began applying the pads of an AED to Sherlock’s chest while the other continued chest compressions, he kept fighting against the person holding him, their words inaudible to his constant calling and begging to the man he cared for above all others.


	11. Medical Drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's emotions take hold as a long-forgotten memory is brought the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nine days to get a chapter up? I don't think that's too shabby! (>v<)  
> A Mycroft-centric chapter...not easy, lemme tell ya. 
> 
> I actually had to watch a series 4 episode to get Mycroft down for this.   
> And I mean watch and study the episode (or at least just Mycroft and his reactions, expressions and the like.
> 
> Sometimes, I really wish I was English so I could write the mannerisms more naturally. But eh, what do you expect?  
> EXPECT ALL BECAUSE I LIKE STRESS!!! (ง •̀_•́)ง

**11**

**Medical Drama**

Several police vehicles approached the outskirts of the building, their lights off as they pulled up in silence. Exiting a black car was Detective-Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, meeting several officers around the side; others were moving around back so as not to draw any unwanted attention. Clearly on edge, Lestrade scanned the outskirts, as though waiting for another arrival. While he was on lookout, Donovan was giving the information to the officers who had been called last-minute to the address from their patrols around the city.

Nodding in understanding, three of them went around the front while the others followed the rest around back, moving down the small alleyway between the buildings. As the others went down the alley, another came up to Lestrade.

“Sir, we found a body in the alleyway.”

The lack of urgency in their voice bode well, and when he led Lestrade to the person they found, the detective-inspector immediately recognized him as the man from the second video. Finding a lack of heartbeat, Lestrade could not help but feel a sense of satisfaction, though he did not let on, despite the question biting at him about who the person behind the man’s demise could have been. The man’s neck was still red, suggestion the cause of death to be strangulation, and the positioning of the body was meant for it to go unnoticed. Had it not have been for the situation, he could have been mistaken as sleeping.

“The perimeter is already squared off and we’ll let the medical personnel handle him when they arrive,” he said, the tone in his voice suggesting the officer join the others around back. Picking up on it, the young officer gave a “yes sir” before jogging down the alley.

Lestrade went to re-join Donovan, who had her eyebrows furrowed as a black car turned the corner through their setup roadblock, pulling up out front of the building. She glanced to Lestrade in question, who dropped his shoulders and shook his head, knowing what was to come.

The tip of the umbrella hit the ground first before the shined shoes with black pinstriped slacks perfectly crested on the tops. Seeing Mycroft exit the vehicle, Lestrade clenched his jaw, on edge of what the government official would attempt, fully well knowing his authority was due to be undermined. He walked down the sidewalk to meet the government official, whose air of superiority was overwhelming.

“I assume you have a forethought strategy?” Mycroft said the moment the two approached each other.

At the question, Lestrade found himself at a loss. There was no sarcasm behind the tone or suspicion that Mycroft had called in for his own proposal in lieu of what Lestrade had already gone through with his team. The last time he had even seen the eldest Holmes, he and Doctor Watson had come to realization that Mycroft knew of his brother’s situation and chosen to do nothing; seeing the man in front of him without any form of backup had him questioning how much they thought they knew.

Banishing any ill-will he had towards Sherlock’s sibling, he relayed, “We’ve secured the street. We’ll enter through both the back and front doors, blocking off any chance the people inside have to escape. Once they are secured, we’ll recover Sherlock and have this operation shutdown.”

Mycroft nodded, his eyes trailing to the front of the bricked structure. Without glancing to Lestrade, he responded, “Allow me to enter through the front as your men take the rear.” The suggestion had Lestrade furrow his brows. “The back door, most likely, leads to the sub-level. Given the time, I highly doubt they have anyone of worth watching my brother, what with the situation at hand.” He finally turned to face Lestrade, whose expression had gone from confusion to understanding.

The red lights of an ambulance reflected in their peripherals.

“Three minutes, Detective,” Mycroft said, making eye contact as his left brow rose. “Give me three minutes before anyone comes through the front.” It was more of an order than it was a suggestion, one which Lestrade seemed to accept, going against protocol.

Seeing the fortitude and apprehension hidden behind the professional façade, it was a favour he knew the eldest Holmes needed and would take regardless if it was given. The time frame Mycroft had spoken had him curious as to what the other man had planned, but it was better left unanswered. With a nod of the head, Mycroft turned on his heel to ascend the steps leading to the ornate door that had partially rotted, its flaws covered with black spray paint. The door was slightly ajar, kept open with a small block of wood. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaving the block in place as the closed made a barely audible _thunk_ against it.

Had it not been for the windows allowing the light from the outside streetlamps to flood into the entryway, he would have been drenched in darkness. Stairs ran up along both sides of the opposing walls, leading to a landing that had an elevator in the centre, most likely flanked by doors to long-abandoned offices. His shoes clicked on the tile as he went around the receptionist desk in the middle of the room, Just as he was about to go under the landing, leaving the light and stepping into the shadows, yellow light flooded from an apparent door to the right into the hall. It was closed just as quickly.

He gripped the handle of his umbrella as he watched a smaller figure walk underneath the landing. He was only a few steps in before he noticed Mycroft. In the process of going for his weapon, he tripped over what was an unseen figure sitting on the floor, his weapon sliding across the tile, which Mycroft caught under his foot.  

“I don’t believe that to be in your best interest,” he spoke calmly, which set the man on edge.

The person he tripped over groaned as their head lolled to the side.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked as he pushed himself from the tile, his voice thick with a foreign accent.

Mycroft took a breath, his shoulders going back as he watched the shadow of the man place his hand on the one coming-to. “Given that my brother is currently within your residence, I assume introductions aren’t required.” Even with the lack of light, his tensing was still visible. “Where is Dreln Hargett? We have a meeting long overdue.” The man pointed over his shoulder to the door he had come from. “Very good.” He walked passed him to stand outside of the door with the light exuding from underneath. “I do suggest you leave your weapons and walk outside, less your evening ends early.”

As he turned back to the door and placed his hand on the handle, he could hear the foreign man urging his ally to stand up as they both shuffled to their feet. He waited until he heard their steps on the tile moving towards the entrance before pulling the door open. Inside the room stood the very man he had been promised.

Dreln stood leaning against a wooden desk, his mobile in hand as the sound of typing filled the room. The door shut behind him as he came to stand fully inside, not even garnering a glance from the other man. Inhaling, Mycroft stood straight, his umbrella in front of him as both hands were set on the handle. After a few moments, the sound of a sent message emanated from Dreln’s phone before he finally pocketed it and looked up.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Holmes!” he called out, voice bouncing off the surrounding walls, arrogance filling his demeanour. “To what do I owe this unpleasant surprise?”

“I believe you have something of mine,” he spoke calmly.

It was immediately tested as the American laughed.

“Belongs to you? I marked him, so I believe that means he’s mine,” he laughed as the words had Mycroft’s body language change.   

Biting back the anger that was rising within him, the official made eye contact, which the other appeared to enjoy, his own eyes glistening with exhilaration. “This can go one of two ways, Mr. Hargett: you either return my brother to me and make it to trial, or I will take him back and you’ll be fortunate to see the sunrise.”

Dreln pursed his lips together, eyes darting off to the side in silent contemplation. “What to do, what to do?” He focused his attention back on Mycroft, glistening in sadistic amusement. “I really liked Sherlock, though. Soft mouth and tight ass? What more could you ask for?” Laughing at Mycroft’s hands gripping the hand of his umbrella with such ferocity that his knuckles had grown white, he pushed off from the desk and walked to stand in front of him, staring up at him, mocking him. “Is that why you want him back? So you can have fun with him, too? I can give you all the details – how good his mouth felt around my cock, how his ass tightened around my fist—”

He was cut off as the rage Mycroft had been fighting against took over and he grabbed the man around his throat, pressing forward until he had him against the desk, his umbrella falling to the floor behind him. “Never speak about Sherlock,” his voice came out haggard. Even with the threat, the amusement failed to fade from Dreln’s face. Instead, he laughed.

Clutching Mycroft’s wrist, he pulled at it just enough to relieve enough pressure from his larynx to speak. “God, I wish your little brother could see this!” He started laughing as he brought his leg up to kick Mycroft from him, causing the official to stumble backwards. He stood, flattening out his shirt from where it had been pulled up. “He honestly believed you wouldn’t come for him, and, to be perfectly honest, I felt bad for him. I didn’t expect you to show, either, given what he told me.”

The comment had Mycroft pause, his rebuttal catching in his throat.

He had made multiple calls for the return of Sherlock. He had offered plea deals, ways for the Cielo Diablos to leave the city without alerting any form of authority, complete immunity to any charges as long as they returned his brother alive. Each time, he had been denied, even so much as being told he would have his brother returned in pieces. Yet, the way Dreln spoke, it was clear the American was never aware of any such bargain.

“Tell me, what did you do to your little brother, Mycroft?” Dreln asked, cutting through his train of thought. At the question, Mycroft’s eyes grew dark as he felt his heart thump painfully in his chest. “He mumbled about something not being his fault, so I’m assuming it wasn’t great.” A long-repressed memory ran through his head as he saw his little brother pressed against a wall by his own hand. He shook the thought away as Dreln grinned as the reaction. “You know that it was never your name he called out, don’t you? Kept calling out for a “John”.” Even Dreln caught Mycroft’s jaw clenching and gritting teeth, causing him to smirk. “Do come visit me after Sherlock’s funeral. We’ll have so much to discuss.”

Funeral?

Mycroft was unable to formulate as response as two officers came through a door towards the back of the room. It only took a moment for them to take in the surroundings before they rushed to restrain the American man, who only kept the smirk on his face as he was handcuffed.

It had been three minutes on the dot.

“Before I leave, do you want to hear my favourite moment with your brother?” They held eye contact, the leer on his face growing. “When we pissed in him and made him cry.”

Mycroft could no longer hold back the emotions coursing through him and he found himself restraining the man by his neck, fingers digging into the larynx and veins.

“You will be lucky to make it to trial, by that I swear,” Mycroft spoke, his voice low, threatening. The two officers appeared nervous, unsure whether or not to break the government official away. “Every person you interact with, whether it be here or in the Americas, will believe the worst; and anything you put my brother through will pale in comparison, Mr. Dreln Mathias Hargett.”

There was a silent moment before Mycroft finally pulled back, his eyes dark as he straightened his jacket.

One of the officers holding Dreln jerked him forward towards the door Mycroft had come through and the two officials left with the man, whose silence and concerned expression brought a sadistic amusement to the Holmes brother. Down the hall, Lestrade passed the trio before entering the room through the same door, approaching Mycroft. Mycroft interjected before the detective-inspector was able to get a word out. “Where’s Sherlock?” he asked, trying to maintain his proper attitude, despite anger on the edge of his voice.

Lestrade failed to respond, instead stalling as he gave the eldest brother a sympathetic look, his eyes glazed over. “We found him unresponsive in the sub-level. Medical is working on him.”

Mycroft’s mask melted away and he jerked his head towards Lestrade, expression nothing but concern. “Take me to him. Now.” His voice was commanding and Lestrade gave no comment.

Eyes tracing the room, Lestrade saw the opened door leading to the corridor his men had come through. With Mycroft on his heels, he went to the door, passing by an old janitor’s closet to the left once passed the threshold. Lestrade motioned for the Holmes brother to go first when they arrived at the edge of the stairs with Mycroft’s shoes clicking on unfinished concrete. The first few steps echoed the crunch of glass under his shoes before shifting to metal grating. Rounding the corner, he heard the pleading voice of John Watson and the sound of beeping from an AED.

When he finally entered the dimly lit room, he felt his entire being collide with the ground.

By a set of D-rings was John Watson and Sergeant Sally Donovan, the latter of which was holding John, who was fighting against her. John’s eyes and face were red as water seeped from his tear ducts, his voice screaming for Sherlock. His brother was near the centre of the room, his lips a light shade of blue as two medical personnel were by him, one in the midst of performing compressions between the white pads of the AED.

They pulled away as the machine gave the warning of a shock due to be administered.

He watched as his brother’s body jerked when the electricity met his heart. After checking for a pulse, the medical officer started again with chest compressions. Any form of composure Mycroft held onto melted away as his eyes turned red and warm liquid met the sides of his face. The hand of Lestrade was on his shoulder, trying to give any form of comfort, though it failed to register. He could vaguely hear John making comments that Sherlock “better wake up” and that he would “kill him for leaving” him. Donovan was still trying to calm him down, telling him to let the emergency personnel work as he continued to fight against her.

The EMP leaned back as another shock coursed through Sherlock’s body.

Once again checking for a pulse, her eyes darted to her partner.

“We’ve got a pulse.”

The air in the room suddenly changed.

As Sherlock was placed on a backboard, John continued to call out his name. It barely registered as he was escorted out of the room by Donovan in the same direction Sherlock was taken, due to follow the ambulance in the police car. Mycroft was on their heels as the orders Lestrade was giving to the officers still in the room faded into the background.


	12. Nought's Had, All's Spent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock is in recovery, John his given the task of dealing with a member of the Cielo Diablos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...hi? ( ^ ^;)
> 
> I know it's been nearly a month and you have NO IDEA how sorry I am!  
> I have been working on this, but a lot of stuff has gone down in my personal life, so my desire to actually work on anything has been naught. 
> 
> All I've done is read. And my reading material consists of serial killers' methodology, psychology and pathology. So reading that stuff, it's hard to not allow it affect my writing. While it does for my "Criminal Minds" fic (which is actually a good thing), it's not for this. 
> 
> For that, I'm so sorry.   
> I had about two pages of this down, but tonight, I decided to actually sit down and write how I wanted this chapter to go. I had to watch some clips of "Sherlock" to get me where I needed and, once I was there, it was like ::BOOM!!!:: LET'S DO THIS!!!
> 
> Please enjoy! And I hope this long chapter makes up for my slow update!!

**12  
Nought’s Had, All’s Spent**

Beeping filled the hospital room as the machine kept track of Sherlock’s heartrate and oxygen levels. Outside of the room, life bustled on with the chatter of nurses and patients with the occasional alarm alerting to a needed refill on a patient’s intravenous fluids. Media had already caught wind of the young detective’s hospitalization, though the reasons had remained clouded in mystery. Reports that Sherlock had been abducted gained mass coverage throughout the night and into the early morning, something everyone was hoping would die down in the following hours as long as no one fanned the flames.

Sherlock had spent his first hours of arrival in surgery, having wooden splinters removed from his anal cavity. A colonoscopy uncovered multiple tears in his anus, which could only be repaired through time, along with antibiotics to avoid possible infections. They reset his shoulder and cast his knee and fractured wrist; the soles of both feet required stitches from where the glass had penetrated, as did his left hand. With Mycroft’s permission, they performed a rape kit and started Sherlock on the first round of medications to prevent possible sexually transmitted diseases. When the results came back, Lestrade would be the first to know to have any DNA evidence put through the system in hopes of finding anyone who aided in the abduction and violation of the young genius.

While four men had been found, with one deceased and three in custody, there were still several missing. Another video had been uploaded during the night, which Lestrade and Mycroft discussed, both acknowledging that alerting John would not be in anyone’s best interest.

The sun had begun to rise by the time he was given a room with rounds from nurses every fifteen minutes.

It was not long until Mycroft had to take leave, being called away for something he either could not or would not refute. Upon leaving, he paused at the room’s door, eyes downwards as John sat by the bed, elbows on his knees as he watched the breathing of his best mate.

“Doctor Watson,” he broke the silence that had been between them that had encountered them each time they were around each other since Sherlock’s recovery. “Thank you…for taking care of Sherlock.” At the comment, John jerked his head towards him, believing he had heard him incorrectly. Unable to form a response, he could only watch as Mycroft left the room, his shoes clicking on the floor tile.

Lestrade had stopped by as it drifted into the afternoon after having spent the bulk of the morning sitting in interviews in an attempt to locate the others seen in the videos. Even with the prodding and patience dwindling, they made no progress. The only headway was Dreln’s mobile, which was password protected and encrypted to avoid unwanted attention. Their tech analyst was given the phone and had been working on it since the early hours with no success. At a stalemate, their only hope was getting the information from Dreln, who had requested a call to the American Embassy upon entry.

He set down a card on the bedside table, which had John give him a curious look.

“A get-well card?” John asked incredulously.

Lestrade waved his hand. “It was insisted upon. Not my idea.” He stood next to Sherlock’s bed, staring down at the young man with a look of regret.

Seeing the proud Sherlock Holmes so vulnerable, every ill-gotten thought coursed through him. They had been made aware of the abduction minutes after it had occurred, yet they still could not track Sherlock or the men who took him until the young man was put through immense physical and psychological trauma. Lestrade found himself praying Sherlock’s genius shielded him from any long-term psychological damage, though he had a sinking feeling it would only make it worse.

Subconsciously, he found himself reaching out and touching the young man’s shoulder.

“Have you been able to track down the others?” John asked in reference to those involved with Sherlock’s abduction.

Lestrade shook his head as he brought his hand back.

“Hargett, Cruz and McLane have locked down, refusing to speak,” he responded, referring to the American, the Mexican and the native. “Though Cruz was adamant about having nothing to do with what happened to Sherlock.” John’s eyes trailed from Lestrade to his mate. The words had confirmed what he had heard through the door – as much as he wanted them all to hang, he knew the Mexican man – Cruz – was against what Dreln and the man he called Francis had done.

“They mentioned a man by the name of Francis,” John said, glancing to Lestrade. “Didn’t get a last name, but it’s better than nothing.” He spoke in confidence, as though he was talking to his best mate about a trivial case. “There was a Cleary, as well. I think he has a problem keeping secrets, since I told that American bastard I knew him. He didn’t seem surprised.”

Lestrade looked at him, as though studying him. His mind was clearly at work, seeming to want to say something and trying to figure out how to go about it. The silence had John raising his brows, wanting the detective inspector to speak what he concluded. At the reaction, Lestrade sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

“John, I know it’s asking a lot, but…they still believe you’re one of them, don’t they?”

John nodded. His curious look fell to one of understanding and he began shaking his head.

“No,” he said affirmatively as Lestrade’s shoulders dropped. “No, no way. I am _not_ doing that.” He shook his head and sat back in the chair, eyes on Sherlock. “Greg, you can’t ask me to do that.”

“John—”

“I’ll kill them,” he said, tone dark and expression falling. “Do you understand that?” When he turned to look at the older man, he saw nothing but remorse. “If you put me in a room with that fucking yank, I’ll kill him.”

The air between them grew tense and quiet, sans the beeping from the machine hooked to Sherlock and his steady breathing through the nasal cannula.

It was not as though John did not understand why he was being asked the favour, but he doubted he would have been able to keep himself in check if he were to come face-to-face with Dreln Hargett after finding Sherlock bloody, violated and not breathing. John had since seen the third video, where Dreln was near elbow deep within Sherlock’s rear. It was after witnessing that video where he lost his composure, in the only way a soldier could, beside his best friend’s unconscious body, apologizing for not finding him sooner, for walking away the other night due to something so trivial, for things that were typical banter between the two of them.

It was because of that calm, yet broken reaction why Lestrade and Mycroft concealed the information of another video – the video that featured footage brutal enough to have police restrain Mycroft from performing an act they knew they would be unable to account for to both the investigators and the government – information that he had been made privy to before Dreln was hauled away, but something he never thought to witness. After viewing the video, even Lestrade was barred from entering the same room as the American, knowing fully well even he would be unable to contain himself.

At the mere thought, Lestrade’s anger and grief flared.

“We need to find the others involved,” Lestrade said, voice sounding distant and hollow as his mind fell to the background. “Bring them to justice.”

“Justice would be their heads on pikes,” came the monotone response. Releasing a sigh, John dropped his shoulders. “Fine. What do you need me to do?”

They made eye contact, John’s face stern as Lestrade’s was coming back online.

* * *

John slipped on the sweater as Donovan peered through the two-sided mirror into the holding cell that held the Mexican man, Raphael Cruz, sitting in one of the bolted down metal chairs, his elbows on his knees as he stared at the wall in front of him. An investigator was standing by as a witness to anything said once John crossed the threshold.

“Try to loosen up and hide the soldier, John,” Donovan said as she kept her gaze focused. “He needs to believe we brought you in with the others – he needs to talk.” John nodded as Donovan turned to face him just as he was rolling up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. He held his arms out to her, his wrists faced upwards.

“Rather walk into a minefield,” he said with a forced smile as the sergeant took her cuffs from their holster on her belt.

She clicked them around his wrists, frowning at the sad attempt at humour. He brought his hands in front of him, inhaling deeply as he composed himself, recalling the body language and demeanour of addicts and gang members he had come into contact with throughout his adulthood. With a reaffirming nod to Donovan, she took hold of his upper arm and guided him to the door, which was only locked from the inside, pulling it open. She pulled him forward into the room, forcing him to turn and face her. Replacing the determined look with a scowl, he held out his arms, watching as she brought out a handcuff key. When she went to take hold of his wrist, he pulled it back, causing her to put more pressure on her grip, her nails digging into his left wrist as she inserted the key and unlocked the first cuff. They repeated the action with the second hand and, when he was free, John called her a “cunt” as she shut the door.

The glance from Cruz was apparent, despite the foreigner attempting to hide it as he went back to staring at the wall when John turned to face the room. He acted to scan the room before his eyes landed on Cruz, whose jaw was visually clenched, forearms on his elbows and eyes focused ever forward.

“They got you, too, I see,” John commented, his voice flat with a hint of frustration as he approached the bolted chairs where the other sat. “It’s a load of rubbish, bringing us in like this, like we had a hand,” he said, sitting down with only one seat empty between them.

He hoped his comment would not sit well given the context, but Cruz sat quiet, eyes not trailing from the spot on the wall. They sat in silence for a few minutes and John looked at his reflection in the mirror he knew Donovan and the investigator was behind. He tried to think of something to garner a response, running over multiple comments or questions. Perhaps he should mention Mycroft’s deal that was apparently denied, or why Cruz had not requested a call to the Mexican Embassy as Dreln had done with the American Embassy. At the same time, that question might cause him to do just that, forgoing any information they could gather.

Inhaling and releasing a sigh, John finally asked, “What do you think will happen since they found Sherlock Holmes in the basement?”

“Why do you give a fuck? You were just there to fuck his ass,” Cruz responded nonchalantly without any hesitation. The comment made John flinch, which thankfully went unnoticed as Cruz kept his gaze on the wall.

“Because none of this makes any damn sense,” John said, barely able to keep his frustration held. “Abducting the brother of a government official with the sole intention of killing him wouldn’t exactly deter the bastards, so what—”

“Whoa, hold up!” Cruz called out, cutting John off as he finally jerked his head sideways to stare at him, sitting straight in the chair. “Who said anything about killing him? All we were doing was holding him until Mycroft gave into our demands. That’s it.” John knitted his brows together, misperception blatant. “But that piece of shit clearly didn’t care what happened to his brother, because Francis was constantly bitching about him ignoring his phone calls.”

The expression John held was one of confusion and frustration as he absorbed the information. He leaned forward, setting his forearms on his knees as he looked at Cruz. “Sherlock Holmes was dead when I got down there.” His heart lurched in his chest at the memory flashing before him, but it was Cruz’s reaction that kept him anchored. “Dreln’s trying to make it look like we were the ones responsible, and that he just got wrapped up in it. Him and Francis don’t give a damn what happens to us, they just want to save their own arses.” He fell into the persona, which seemed to work, whereas Cruz’s demeanour switched from being stiff and standoffish to almost desperate as what he thought he knew came crashing down. It had him wondering how far he could push it, whereas the Mexican man fell quiet as he searched for answers in front of him. “Mycroft Holmes did contact him – they made me listen to the recordings,” he hoped Cruz believed him, though only the part of having recorded messages was false. “Mycroft was offering us immunity and paid fare if his brother was returned, but Francis kept denying the offers.”

He kept his gaze forward as Cruz turned to look at him in disbelief, searching for truth while John held on his forced anger.

“Immunity?” Cruz asked in reassurance.

Before John could respond, their attention was drawn to the clicking and opening of the door near the opposite end of the room.

“Jeavons,” an officer said as he stepped partially into the doorway.

With a nod of the head, John stood. He glanced by to Cruz, whose entire world had been shattered, his brain searching for answers and ways to escape what he expected to happen. Even as John began walking back to the doorway, he knew what he had said would grate on the Cielo Diablos member until he would ultimately give up whatever information required to ensure his own livelihood. While they wanted to make immediate headway, it was apparent that time was a virtue.

After being cuffed once more and escorted out of the room, it was not until the door was closed when John released a breath he was not even aware he was holding. As the officer began undoing his cuffs, John looked at Donovan who was in the midst of the end of a phone call. After the confinements were removed, John rubbed his wrists, eyes on the sergeant as she pressed the “end call” on her mobile. Sighing, her eyes landed on John, whose expression was nothing but curiosity as to why he was pulled out of the room just as he was making headway.

“Holmes came to, then crashed,” she spoke in near aggravation, which only garnered a panicked response. “While he was coherent, he requested you and Mycroft – they’re waiting for both of you in the ER back at the hospital. Mycroft has already been notified. Foss will drive you there,” she finished, nodding the officer who brought John out of the room.

“Right. Thanks,” he said as he began following the officer. “Keep me updated, won’t you?” The response he received was a nod from Donovan, though her attention had gone back to staring into the holding room.

He trailed behind Foss as they went through and exited the precinct. It did not take long to return to the hospital with Foss turning on the lights to the police car, allowing them to pass through even the heaviest traffic with a bit more ease. The officer tried to keep the conversation between them light, asking about Sherlock’s condition and trying to give John reassurance, things even John knew he was trained to do when dealing with a victim and their close friends or family. Even though he understood why, John’s answers were short, predominately limited to one-word answers, rather having the drive be in silence, than feeling obliged to speak.

Even Sherlock would have known to stop pressing for comments, leaving John to his own devices.

A sharp pang shot to his chest at the thought, realizing that those times of normality may have very well come to an end.

They pulled up outside of the building. Foss escorted John in, though the military veteran had walked well ahead of him once they entered the door. After speaking with the front desk and being told which room Sherlock was being held in, John left the officer behind the moment the room number was out of her mouth. He jogged down the halls, following the signs for the correct room, which was the first room passed a nurse’s station. Coming in view of the doorway, his brows knitted together at the sight, which kept him from entering.

Sherlock was hooked up to an electrocardiograph keeping track of his heart, a vitals monitor that was measuring his oxygen levels, blood pressure, arterial oximetry, and an intravenous needled administering fluids. Seeing him attached with so many wires had John clenching his jaw and biting back the desire to perform his own analysis, though he knew Sherlock was in the best capable hands. Yet, it was not the various chords that kept him from entering, but who he saw in the room, running their fingers through his best mate’s hair.

Mycroft stood by the bed, his eyes staring sadly at his younger brother’s features, his mouth moving, words inaudible. John watched as Mycroft pushed Sherlock’s hair back from his face and leaned down, giving a soft kiss on his brother’s forehead. Sensing that he was seeing something he should not have been, John stepped back from the doorway, allowing Mycroft the privacy with Sherlock the eldest Holmes needed.

A few minutes passed by before John decided to enter the room. Drawing Mycroft’s immediate attention, the official stood straight, his hands moving to clasp the handle of his umbrella, which had been leaning against the bed. Though he tried to hide it, his face was a slight hint of pink, proving to John that Sherlock’s sibling was capable of human emotion. The thought caused him to chuckle internally, imagining what Sherlock would have said had he have been awake. It would be something he would have to tell him the moment he had the chance.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, returning to his formality, clearly attempting to keep hidden the emotion he never allowed public.

John approached the bed and set his hand on Sherlock’s leg, eyes trailing from his bruised and cut face to the bruising around his neck. “What happened?” His attention went to the wires connecting to the machines.

Mycroft inhaled, bringing his gaze to him. “Sherlock has an infection from the…acts committed upon him,” he said, voice tight. “As it turns out, my brother has an allergy to Rocephin, the antibiotic they were using to treat apparent sepsis. When he was administered the second dose, his body was unable to handle the shock, leading him to cardiac arrest.” Relaying the information, his grip tightened on his umbrella.

The information left John feeling numb.

Under normal circumstances, an allergic reaction to the antibiotic may have caused nausea or seizures, enough for the patient to know something was wrong and get medical aid; but for the patient’s heart to seize at such a young age and with a healthy heart, it was clear their physical state was in severe distress. John exhaled and found himself setting his forehead on his best friend’s thigh, his left hand on Sherlock’s chest and right on his leg.

Here the genius was in hospital, the place he was to get well, and a fluke nearly caused him to lose his life – something he had already lost once.

“You can’t leave me, Sherlock Holmes. I won’t let you,” John said quietly before he pulled his head up to peer at Sherlock’s face. “Do you have any leads?” he asked Mycroft, who sighed.

“We’ve managed to locate a Christopher Cleary, who believed it was humorous to be found.”

John released an airy laugh. It was the same surname name Dreln was complaining about.

“I believe you just found a key, then” he responded, trailing his eyes to Mycroft.

He did not have to explain, Mycroft picking up on the nuances. With one more look to his brother, Mycroft thanked John once more – much to the doctor’s surprise – before leaving the room, due to handle what was figured to be more than enough responsibilities for one person.

After he made his exit, John’s attention had gone back to Sherlock, whose breathing was steady. He brought his hand up, allowing his fingers to trace down from Sherlock’s cheek to his jaw. The mere thought of losing the man caused a pain John had not experienced. His chest grew tight, his eyes burned, his body felt dazed. This was the man who could handle anything, who could survive everything – who had dealt with more in his personal life than any normal person could deal with. Then again, if anyone could fight against the societal norm of normality and win, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

The thought made him smile.

“Listen here, you intelligent, self-absorbed bastard,” he started as he held the side of his mate’s face, rubbing his thumb on his cheek. “When you come out of this, and you will, I know you’ll try to fight this on your own, so I’m going to call you a stupid idiot now. _We_ are going to get through this, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll be damned if I allow you to go through anymore alone.” Leaning down, he pressed their foreheads together. “I’m here with you, Sherlock. I’ll always be here.”


	13. Injection Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Cielo Diablos member is located and John is forced to confront his feelings for his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been over a month.  
> I am SO SORRY. m(__ __)m
> 
> So much has happened in my life and my writing muse just bounced.   
> What made it flare back up was going to see "Crimes of Grindlewald" two weeks ago. After writing a one-shot for that film, my writing muse sprung back to life and I was able to work on this once again. 
> 
> Chances are likely this will be the last chapter of having an incapacitated Sherlock, but we'll see how it goes. (__ u __)

**13  
Injection Point**

“So what did they say?” John asked Lestrade in the lobby of the hospital, accepting the small cup of lukewarm instant coffee.

“Cruz gave up Hargett in exchange for deportation. Smartest thing the bastard’s done.” John agreed and took a sip from the coffee. Lestrade mimicked the action, his eyes watching as a call from a nurse’s radio echoed when she passed them. He raised his brows when the young nurse rolled their eyes, changing their direction and walking towards the lift. “He recanted his desire to contact the American Embassy – guess he forgot he was here illegally. Big surprise for him when he remembered.”

John could not help but chuckle.

“Hasn’t that call already been made?” John asked, eyeing Lestrade, who gave him a nonchalant shrug.

“We were busy with other cases and it may have been overlooked.”

John laughed into his coffee.

Even the man who would follow protocol to a T was more than willing to take advantage of its loopholes given the right circumstances.

His attention was drawn to Donovan, whose mobile was to her ear, her tone and facial features exuding annoyance and aggravation – a reaction John had found all-too-common. She looked at Lestrade, making eye contact as her lips formed a thin line. With a quick glance to John, which John caught, despite her attempt at being discreet, Lestrade sighed. Neither one of them had to make a comment. John merely raised his cup and backed out, leaving the two officials to discuss whatever confidential matters.

He moved into the same direction the nurse had gone towards the lifts. If he was lucky, Sherlock would be coming-to, though it was an optimistic thought. It was a day ago when he had been asked to pose as a Cielo Diablos member and his mate had yet to return to the waking world. Lestrade had stopped by during his free time; whenever he was not dealing with cases files or the overall investigation of the drug cartel’s infiltration of the city. After Christopher Cleary was brought in, the information John was given became less and less. While he understood why, he had to refrain from becoming actively upset with being left in the shadows.

The lift signalled its arrival and he stepped in.

The ride was short, dropping him off on the second floor. As he made his way down the hall, he passed by a nurse’s station.

There was a loud bang, followed by the loud voices of nurses and the screeching of a gurney with a limp wheel. An elderly man was escorted onto it as he clutched at his chest, complaining of shortness of breath, while telling the nurses that it was nothing to worry about. They passed by John, who turned to watch them disappear around the corner to the lift before shaking his head and continuing his walk back to the room Sherlock was currently housed. Walking through the threshold, he saw a male nurse next to a cart holding several small bottles of medication, his hands on the chart that held all of Sherlock’s medical information.

He stepped up to the side of the bed, taking a sip from his coffee as he watched the nurse flip through the chart before placing it back on the hook on the wall next to the patient. Picking up and uncapping a new syringe, the man took hold of one of the medication bottles.

“What are you giving him?” John asked as the nurse pressed the needle of the syringe into the sealed cap of the liquid, filling the syringe.

“Antibiotics for his blood infection.” The man set the bottle back on the tray.

Though the man seemed familiar, John could not place why. It was not a face from one of the videos, but he still could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“He had those an hour ago.” His body stiffened, going into immediate alert. He looked at the small glass bottle the man had just set back down on the tray, reading the name of the medication. “And there’s definitely been a mistake, because he’s allergic to that,” John said, nodding to the bottle.

 The man looked at him, obviously annoyed, and turned his attention back to the chart on the wall.

“There’s nothing in his profile about an allergy,” he said, flipping the page. He allowed the page to fall back into place and brought the syringe in front of his face, flicking it to force the air to the top and pressing the plunger enough to extract it.

“I don’t care what it doesn’t say, he’s allergic and Rocephin can kill him.” Seeming to ignore him, the nurse took hold of the IV and brought the needle to the injection port. “What are you doing?!” John grabbed the tube that was near Sherlock’s elbow and bent it, halting the flow of liquid as the man pressed down on the plunger. In an instant, John pulled the IV’s needle form Sherlock’s vein, blood dripping down his mate’s arm onto the white sheets.

In the midst of being in a state of confusion, anger and shock, his brain began piecing together where he had seen the man before. Remembering back to the night Sherlock was drugged and abducted, he recalled the man in an argument with who they assumed was his wife over his mobile phone. The way the man bumped into Sherlock, giving him the opportunity to inject him with some form of sedative. If he was a nurse, gaining access to different forms of drugs would have been all too simple, and having a member with such an ease of access would be more than beneficial to the Cielo Diablos.

The man appeared to have realized he had been recognized, whereas he became aggressive and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, ready to inject the medication directly into the young man’s vein.

In an instant, John was on the opposite side of the bed, grabbing the nurse’s wrist and twisting. The man released a shout as the tendons and fragile bones snapped, the syringe falling to the tiled floor below. The moment the threat was dropped, John shoved the man against the wall, his forearm pressed against his throat, cutting his air.

The commotion attracted the attention of one of the nurses passing by and she ran into the room, calling for John to release her co-worker, her voice panic-stricken. As the man tried pushing against John’s face to get him to let go, John kept the pressure, even ensuring to press harder, his jaw taught and expression unreadable as he stared into the man’s fearful eyes. It was only a moment later when there were arms around the military doctor, pulling him away from the hospital worker, who collapsed the floor, coughing and sucking in breath-after-breath as his hands grasped at his throat.

Even as his heart pounded in his ears and his focus was only on the man now on the floor, flanked by his apparent co-workers, John became acutely aware of the security staff holding him. As security started escorting him from the room, Lestrade and Donovan entered, both overwrought by confusion.

“He’s the one who drugged him,” John could hear himself saying to the personnel refusing to release their grip.

The comment had the sergeant and detective inspector turn their focus to the nurse, whose eyes were focused on John as he recovered. “He’s mental,” the man said, eyes narrowed as his hand was still on his neck. “I was giving the patient his medications.”

John managed to break away from one of the guards, looking to Lestrade, who he just registered was in the room. “He was there that night – talking on the phone. He was there. He was the one who drugged, Sherlock.” Lestrade’s eyes adverted to the nurse, while Donovan’s stayed on John, brow furrowing as if judging the validity of the accusation. “He was trying to give Sherlock Rocephin.”

The statement had both officials’ demeanours change.

“Sir,” Donovan said to the nurse, who was now standing straight, his arms crossed over his chest as his gazed was focused on the veteran. “What’s you’re name?”

At the question, the man fell silent, his jaw taught.

Even the man’s co-workers exchanged glances, staring at their colleague while they waited him for to answer. When the silence dragged too long, Donovan reiterated, “Sir.”

“Frank Bellman,” he responded in haste, almost breathing out his name.

The air in the room became tense, those involved piecing the information.

Before anyone could react, both Lestrade and Donovan had their weapons drawn onto the male nurse – Frank – who immediately went onto the defence, his hands going up as he pressed himself against the wall John had once had him had him pinned.

“Francis Bellman, you’re under arrest for the abduction, assault and attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said, garnering confused looks from the security and hospital staff who had known the man personally.

The nurse – Frank – fell silent as Donovan took the lead and approached him. The sergeant grabbed the man’s shoulder and pulled him forward, away from the wall. The man allowed her behind him to grab his wrists and meet them to his back, all the while focused on Lestrade and the weapon drawn on him. He locked eyes with him as Donovan cuffed him, expression showing nothing but contempt as his mouth formed a tight line. Once the handcuffs were in place, Lestrade sheathed his weapon. He and his co-worker exchanged glances. Donovan placed him in a modified escort hold before Lestrade grabbed the man’s upper arm, pulling and jerking him towards the door, moving passed the small crowd of nurses and patients they were not even aware had gathered.

John followed their exit, shifting to Donovan, whose expression was a blend of anger and annoyance. She turned her attention to the two nurses still in the room and the onlookers.

“It’s done. You can leave, now.” The look she gave met with her tone had everyone in the area scatter. In any other situation, John would have found her assertive and pompous tone grating; yet, at the moment, he could not have welcomed it more. After they left, leaving the two alone with nothing more than the steady beeping, Donovan released an audible sigh, shaking her head while John watched her. “Bloody parasites,” she muttered, taking a quick glance to the incapacitated man on the bed.

A heavy silence filled the room.

John directed his attention to Sherlock, watching as the man’s chest rose and fell, his breathing even. Even with the commotion and his near loss of life, the younger man failed to stir. Donovan was watching the doctor, her gaze stern and almost empathetic.

“You really care about him, don’t you?” she asked, breaking the awkward silence and drawing John’s attention.

“Of course,” John responded immediately, meeting her eyes. “He’s my friend, why wouldn’t I?”

At the comment, a laugh escaped Donovan’s throat. “A friend? Is that what you call it?” He gave her a confused look. She rolled her eyes. “Just admit that you love him, John. It’s rather sad to watch you two pine after each other, completely oblivious to the other.”

John’s heart pounded, his jaw clenching as his brows furrowed.

Every rebuttal came to his forethought, but as he searched for a response, his brain could find none. The only thing he could get out was a stuttering, “But I don’t – Sherlock doesn’t—”

“Look,” she cut him off. “Just because most of us don’t like the freak doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t. No one willing hangs around Sherlock Holmes unless they need him. You’re the first, John.” John stared at her, his frustration and anger rising, but he kept it contained. “A blind man sees the way you two are with other. It’s just that you’re both too stubborn to say it.” She looked at the unconscious man on the bed. “Do both yourselves a favour and tell him,” she said, bringing her attention back to John. “Might not get the chance again.”

After a moment’s pause, she turned to leave the room.

Before she left, she turned back to the military veteran. “John.” He turned to look at her. “Even Freak deserves someone to love him, it might as well be you.” With that, she turned on her heel, leaving the Army doctor to his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was short! Please forgive me for that!  
> But I had the last part written months before I even started this chapter and I just had to lead up to it.
> 
> It just so happens the cards fell how they did.   
> Please let me know if you enjoyed this chapter! (^ ^*)


	14. Land of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to terms with his feelings towards his best mate, as Sherlock battles his own inner demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...um...this took less than a month to update? (^ ^;)
> 
> Sorry about that.   
> I was working on some other fics while working on this simultaneously. 
> 
> That being said, this chapter is a bit longer than previous ones - something I'm sure you'll enjoy. (^ ^)

**14  
Land of Light**

With the arrest of Francis Bellman, the Cielo Diablos’ frontrunner in the country, the operation they had tried to form in the limits of London had come to a halt. Scotland Yard had infiltrated and had the operation shutdown by the time the moon had risen, with several members taken into custody. It did not take much longer for the government to become involved and discover another base within the boundaries of Northern Ireland from a loose-lipped individual. After a phone call, the news headlines all across the United Kingdom had exposed the group and their various well-known members. Scotland Yard’s takedown was at the top of the headlines, following with pictures of members in the hierarchy, including Francis Bellman, the American Dreln Hargett and a Mexican woman by the name of Emilia Hernandez they had arrested during the raid in Wales.

John had watched during the initial broadcast as several members were filmed by news reporters as they were escorted out of a large house in Kensington. He had heard from Lestrade how many hundreds of kilos worth of drugs were found in the home, and the house was only one of several. Neither one of them vocalised it, but they knew had it not had been for their abduction and assault of Sherlock, it would have been months before the cartel’s dismantlement in the countries came to a head.

What the group had wanted to use as a deterrence was ultimately their undoing.

John now sat in Sherlock’s room, his laptop open as he found himself following the reports of the Cielo Diablos’ takedown through various news sources. A cold cup of instant coffee sat on the bedside table, which he still found himself taking occasional sips from. With Lestrade handling the main investigation and Mycroft dealing with the political spectrum, John was the only one left to watch after Sherlock, waiting for him to come-to. After the situation that morning, John had not left his mate’s side. It was Donovan who had sent an officer to the flat to get John’s computer, along with a change of a clothes and toiletries. From the woman who had always made her disdain towards Sherlock more than apparent, she had made certain John would not have to leave him until the young genius was conscious.

His mobile vibrated, signalling an incoming text. A notification from Lestrade had come in, updating him on the number of total arrests: 62. It was the only bit of information they would tell him. Any of the information they had gathered was no longer something they could divulge, though John knew that if the tides had been different, Sherlock would have been one of the people requested to help work in the takedown.

“What time is it?” a low mutter came from the bed.

The laptop nearly fell to the floor.

John jerked his head towards Sherlock, whose eyes were fluttering beneath his lids. Keeping his tone and manner as calm as possible, John set his hand on his Sherlock’s with a light grasp.

“8:30,” he said in affirmation, unsure of Sherlock’s mental state.

He watched as his mate fell silent. After releasing a groan, Sherlock asked, “Aren’t we late?”

John was wrought with confusion, yet Sherlock’s eyes remained closed. “For what?”

There was an elongated pause before the younger man responded.

“Supper. The restaurant will close soon.”

John found himself having to fight to reel back his emotions. Sherlock was referring to the night he was taken – when John had requested Sherlock join him to the restaurant he had held a reservation. John shook his head, forcing a smile. “No. We’ll be on time.” He ran his thumb over the Sherlock’s knuckles, his friend attempting to nod his head.  

Another long pause.

“John,” his voice was slurred, his eyes still closed.

“What is it?”

Voice quiet, Sherlock came out with, “Sorry – I’m sorry.”

John knitted his brows together. “For what?” He waited a moment for Sherlock to get his bearings straight, but his partner stayed silent. “Sherlock?” Still, he garnered no response, the younger man’s breaths becoming even once more as he slipped back into unconsciousness. John sighed and moved his hand from Sherlock’s hand to his head. “We’ll talk about apologies later.” With that said, he turned back to his laptop, his expression a mix of confusion and content as he refreshed the page, it updating to a new headline about another arrest.

At some point during the night, John had managed to fall asleep, his head falling on the back of the chair, his feet propped on the rails of Sherlock’s bed. Unbeknownst to him, an officer had been stationed to Sherlock’s room, ensuring nothing happened to the genius – another courtesy of Donovan’s. John came to when a nurse entered to deliver Sherlock’s medications. He monitored what she gave him and how much, falling back into sleep shortly after she left the room, ensuring his mate reacted properly to the given medication.

The next thing to wake him was the vibrating of his mobile.

At first, he was not even aware his mobile had gone off, it having fallen to the floor at some time during the night. His laptop nearly met it when he sat up, only being caught by John at the last second. Finding his phone underneath the bed, he was alerted to several text messages that Lestrade had apparently been sending throughout the night, the most recent reading 87. He unlocked his phone and sat back in the chair, scrolling through the updates, checking for anything that was not number-based. He tossed the phone on the table with a sigh when they were just that and stared at his incapacitated ally.

It was a little after seven in the morning and Sherlock’s breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling as the air from the nasal cannula filtered through. The next dose of meds were not due for another hour and John contemplated scouring for something to eat as his stomach released a low growl. Having been drinking nothing but stale coffee for the last few days was finally catching up to him. As another growl made itself apparent, he decided against leaving the hospital, but checking to see if there was anything being served in the canteen on the ground floor.

* * *

The office remained in its dilapidated state, the metals chairs still rusting, the walls cracking and crumbling, the portrait of the Queen in the late stages of deterioration. Lying on the floor in the middle of the office, Sherlock was on his side, his eyes staring blankly at the wall, watching them continue to peel. The silence around him had long stopped serving as a welcome and had become grating, his mind doing nothing but running over itself. He had not moved from the floor in what felt to be days, even without the perception time,

There was a clicking sound that drew his attention back to the door. His look was curious as he saw the doorknob return. Gathering to his feet, he slowly walked towards the door, eyes not straying from the handle. He could feel the metal on his palm when he gripped it and a strange anxiety grew inside him as the prospect of what he would find. Taking a breath, he pulled the door open, introducing him to a familiar light. Stepping through the threshold, he found himself in the flat of 221B Baker Street. Confusion washed over him as he took in the surroundings – the living room in disarray, the light of streetlamps leaking into the room through the windows, John sitting in his chair while updating their blog.

Sherlock turned back to the door, which was now closed. Turning back to John as the military veteran began typing an update, Sherlock’s memories began conflicting. The actions that occurred in the sub-level felt as though they were nothing more than a dream, something that he had been awakened from, while the memory faded into his subconscious. From what he recalled, John had a reservation at a local restaurant that evening, yet, he seemed relaxed, as though the night and his time were free. However, at the same time, Sherlock was uncertain as to when he had reached that conclusion, uncertain as to whether John had told him or if he had realized it on his own.

Noting the lack of sunlight, he brought his attention to John, who was now rereading what he had typed, ensuring there were no misprints.

“What time is it?” he asked, his best mate appearing to pay no heed to his presence.

John looked at the timer on corner of his laptop. “8:30.” He went back to typing.

Sherlock knitted his brows together. “Aren’t we late?”

“For what?” came the nonchalant response, John’s eyes scanning the lit screen in front of him.

Sherlock paused, questioning if his days had gotten confused. “Supper,” he said with an air of affirmation. “The restaurant will close soon.”  

The older man stopped and turned to look at him. The reaction and his expression spoke volumes, as if Sherlock himself had gone mad. “No. We’ll be on time.” Sherlock nodded, despite John’s look that of befuddlement.

The recollection of being violated and humiliated ran across his mind and Sherlock found himself creasing his forehead, complete uncertainty raging throughout him. He began recalling all the times John had stayed with him, when anyone else would have abandoned him: his initial verbal reading of the older man in the cab, John being near death during his first confrontation with Moriarty, his rejection of companionship during their time in Baskerville, his return after his supposed-death and John’s initial rejection.

The memories forced his unwanted emotion to the surface and he felt his eyes burn. “John,” he said, calling his mate’s attention.

“What is it?”

Sherlock paused, his gaze focused on the expression he had come to know of his best friend – the look of concern met with confusion. The reminiscence of John’s reaction after Sherlock’s faked suicide ran through his mind. He had caused John so much pain over the years. Why the man had stayed with him through it all was something the young genius could not comprehend. All he wanted to do was apologise – to tell John, “Sorry…I’m sorry.”

Before John could respond, familiar voices were heard from beyond the door to the hall, drawing Sherlock’s attention.

With his hand on the door, which was now slightly ajar, Sherlock slowly pushed it open, expecting the landing leading to the lower and upper floors. Instead, he was introduced to the familiar surroundings of the basement – the pungent scent of blood, sweat and coitus filling his nostrils. Going against his better judgement, he crossed the threshold, the door to his flat shutting behind him. The deceased lower-class man’s body parts were in a pile near the wall with maggots crawling in and out of the exposed tissue, the head on top of the torso, the eyes milky and glazed as they stared ever forward. The mattress still sat in the back corner, damp with urine, semen and blood, the sight bringing back the memory of being used – the feeling of urine filling his bowels returned and nausea rose in the back of his throat.

In the centre of the room, near the wooden chair and d-rings, stood the figure of Dreln Hargett with the strong stature of his brother Mycroft. The American had his mobile out, his thumb scrolling along the screen as he was apparently showing Mycroft whatever was on it. Judging by the look his brother held, Sherlock knew it was the various images the gang member had taken of him while being captive. Dreln glanced up from the phone. Seeing Sherlock, he smiled and motioned to Mycroft.

“Ah, Sherlock. Glad you could join us. I was just showing your brother some of my favourite moments together.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who said nothing, instead watching his younger brother with nothing but disappointment. “We did have fun, didn’t we?”

“Not quite what I would call it,” was the nonchalant response.

“Don’t lie, now,” Dreln said as he swiped through a few pictures. He held up the screen, as though showing proof he did not even have. “Even Mycroft here told me how much you enjoy being played with.”

Sherlock knitted his brows together and adverted his attention to the official, whose subtle changes in posture confirmed Dreln’s accusation.

“You’ve always enjoyed it, Sherlock; just as you did back then.” The younger man felt his chest tighten as he and Mycroft made eye contact, and he saw nothing but condemnation. He knew his own were reflecting betrayal and hurt, despite his attempt to keep his expression unreadable. The memory of Mycroft shoving him against the wall flashed across his mind. “Your denial is the very reason you’re alone, Brother Mine.”

Even Dreln’s reaction was of surprise at the comment as he went back to scrolling through his mobile. The normal confidence Sherlock exuded fell the wayside under his brother’s cold eyes; it was the very same look he was given that night when he was sixteen – when Mycroft left him bleeding and curled up on the floor.

“They’re wrong.”

A familiar voice cut his train of thought and he looked behind him to see the comforting gaze of his best mate.

“You’re not alone.” John held his hand out to him. Sherlock looked down at the open palm in uncertainty. His eyes darted up, but before he could comment, John continued, “I’m here with you, Sherlock. I’ll always be here.” With the reassuring gaze of his best mate, even despite his own internal conflict, Sherlock found himself reaching out his own hand.

As his hand hovered over John’s, he glanced up one more time for confirmation; and when saw nothing but trust and comfort, he set his hand in John’s, the older man taking hold and pulling Sherlock forward into an embrace. As John’s arms wrapped around him, for the first time, a sense of calmness came over him. It was the first time he had realized that whenever John was around, there was a sense of comfort and safety, a sense that had otherwise been foreign to him. Sherlock felt himself melt away, the memories of the basement sinking into the distance.

* * *

Muffled voices from the hall entered the room, the monitors steadily beeping. Early morning sunlight was leaking into the room, basking the room in a golden hue. John had returned to the chair next to the bed, a hot cup of tea sitting on the table next to a half-eaten sandwich. Curiosity had pulled him back to the website the woman – Allison – had introduced them to with the first video of Sherlock’s abduction. He was genuinely surprised to find the site still running, having expected Mycroft to have pulled some strings to have it shutdown indefinitely. What was gone, however, were the multitude of videos of Sherlock’s abuse. He had combed through the various uploads, ensuring they had been taken down, only finding videos of Sherlock and himself on various newscasts throughout the years.

He had a surge of anger when some of the comments in the forum were asking about the videos of his mate’s abduction; some were discussing the content, while others were directly asking for them. Even though the comments asking for the videos were not nearly as plentiful as the ones saying how they hoped the videos were fake and that “the real Sherlock” was all right, just knowing that people were willing to watch something of that calibre and celebrate it had John’s rage boiling to the tipping point. When he saw a comment about one of the videos with a link to a .jpeg, he fought with himself whether or not to click it, but wanting to ensure that all traces of Sherlock’s degradation were no longer accessible, he clicked the link.

An odd laugh left his throat when it was a text on a black background that read, _Nothing here, you sick twats._

“I smell tea.”

In an instant, John slammed the screen shut, his attention jerking to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s head was facing him, his lids fluttering to slits. He lifted his head, his gaze moving to the cup on the table. He fell back onto the pillow. “Smells amazing.”

John’s chest felt tight as his lips formed into a smile, his brows moving upwards. “Do you want a cup?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Sherlock shook his head, pressing into the mattress. John watched him, wondering if he had fallen back to sleep. Instead, Sherlock turned to look at the windows and the sunlight flooding in, as though welcoming the light he had not seen in days. The sight had John drop his shoulders. With the light reflecting from his best friend’s features, he could see the true destruction the abduction had wrought: his eyes were sunken, skin pale, yet splotched with patches of red and purple, his cheekbones poking from underneath the skin. For the next few minutes, John said nothing as he watched the younger man. The one thing Sherlock never did was stay silent, always commenting about something that no normal person would notice. His silence spoke louder than anything John had ever heard from him before.

The only thing that John could think to do was the one thing he was most uncertain about.

He set his hand on Sherlock’s, giving it a light squeeze.

Confusion was the first emotion to grow across Sherlock’s features. He drew his gaze to where John’s hand rested on his own, uncertain as to why. Even still, his eyes were distant, thinking.

“Sherlock, are you with me?” John asked, gauging the other’s reaction.

Sherlock’s eyes trailed from their hands to the doctor’s face, mind at work as it was clearly studying the expression. His gaze moved from John to the closed laptop, then back to the table. At the objects upon it, his brows furrowed.

“Is that a get-well card?” Sherlock asked, tone mirroring his typical state, though his features spoke much different.

John glanced to the table, seeing the card Lestrade had brought two days ago. He nodded as his attention had gone back to his mate. “Courtesy of Scotland Yard.”

“How trite,” Sherlock scoffed as he rolled his eyes, John breathing out a laugh. The genius’ attention fell back on where John’s hand covered his own. Expecting a comment, John was taken aback when Sherlock came out with, “My arm’s numb.”

“Your shoulder’s been relocated. It will take time for the full strength and sensation to come back for you to have full mobility.”

Sherlock said nothing, his focus on where their hands met. John’s grip relaxed when he felt Sherlock’s hand move. While he had thought Sherlock was attempting to move his hand away, he was, instead, trying to turn his hand over. Once his palm was up, his long fingers tried to grip John’s. It was weak, something that apparently aggravated the younger man, the touch so light it was not even able to indent the skin on John’s hand. Sensing the brunet’s frustration, John gave it a tight grip.

The reaction was one John was not expecting.

Sherlock’s eyes began to turn red, despite his impassive expression.

“What’s wrong?” He maintained his light-hearted tone, not wanting his mate to slip away in a feeling of mistrust. It took a moment for Sherlock to reply, but when he did, John failed to understand.

“I’m confused,” Sherlock said bluntly, the redness growing as his eyes began to glaze.

“What about?”

“Why you’re still here.”

The response caught John off-guard.

“Sherlock—”

“I’ve caused you nothing but strife,” Sherlock’s voice stayed monotone. “I’ve mocked you, disappointed you, given you no reason to remain in company.” Despite his impassive expression, the redness in his eyes had given way, the line of liquid reflecting the sunlight. “I’m not worth your time, John. I never have been.”

The certainty Sherlock spoke with, each phrase shot into John’s chest. Sherlock was a strong individual, one who had not been swayed by being an outcast his intellect had brought. Yet, here he was, apologizing for things John had never given a second thought. Even he knew the way Sherlock was around him was his own insecurity. His ability to read people had him called a “freak” most of his life; but for John, it was nothing but admiration. It was never something Sherlock needed to apologize over. Prior to meeting the young genius, all John had waited for was the embrace of Death. The fact that he had survived so much, it only proved to him that he still had a reason for being.

As did Sherlock, even if the young man refused to admit it.

Perhaps Donovan was right.

Taking his chances, he set his laptop next to him and reached across with his free hand, touching Sherlock’s jawline. It was an action that the other was not expecting, whereas he tensed, his brows furrowing as he looked to the older man. With his heart pounding in his chest, John took a breath. His very actions had the chance of pushing Sherlock away, but he had nearly lost him. Donovan’s words echoed across his mind: _Do both yourselves a favour and tell him. Might not get the chance again._

As much as he disliked the woman and her detest towards his mate, he knew she was right.

He had almost lost Sherlock – had almost forgone any chance of telling the younger man his true worth and what he meant. Even if Sherlock was unaware, he had saved John in a way beyond anyone else could have. He had given him purpose – had stayed with him despite his own faults of depression and anxiety. The very things he had hidden from the world since his discharge from the Military.

He made eye contact with Sherlock, both of their confused and apprehensive gazes melding with each other’s. “My time wasn’t worth anything until I met you, Sherlock Homes. Don’t you dare leave me again.”

With that said, he stood, embracing his best mate’s head and shoulders. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, shutting his eyes as he held him. He was not sure what to expect, but he did not care in that moment. He could not lose him; and if Sherlock did choose to pull away from him, he could at least rest in the fact he did the one thing he had been wanting to. However, when Sherlock’s arm reached up in a crude attempt to grab his sleeve in acceptance, John’s grip tightened and he found himself rocking the two of them back-and-forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was worth the wait!  
> The next is in the works! (^ v ^)


	15. Laugh in the Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock's in recovery, there's an obvious absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone,   
> I'm so sorry this took so long. m(__ __)m
> 
> So much has happened in my personal life, being able to focus on writing went to the back burner.   
> If you're interested, please read the ending notes. 
> 
> Otherwise,   
> Please enjoy this chapter that I trimmed from 12 pages to 8!  
> The other pages will be in the next chapter. (>v<)

**15**  
Laugh in the Face  


“Sherlock, stop – stop – don’t – Sherlock – damn it all,” John pulled back and released a sigh when Sherlock used his good arm to push him away. John dropped his shoulders, his lips in a thin line as he watched the younger man attempting to get out of the hospital bed, one leg on the floor while he fought with the cast upon his opposite knee. With one arm still regaining its strength, and his left wrist donning a brace, watching the young genius fight against his own body to stand was driving John mad. “At least let me help you to the door.”

Sherlock tried using the pole the fluids hung from to support himself as he finally was able to get both feet on the tiled floor. “They’re out their right mind if they think for a second I’m using that,” he said in reference to the bed pan the nurse had set next to the bed earlier that evening.

“There’s always the catheter—”

“No,” Sherlock cut him off, making John stifle a laugh. “I am perfectly _capable_ ”—he caught himself as the pole began rolling across the floor—“of doing this myself.”

John nodded, seemingly amused when he saw the cord of the monitor wrapped around the leg of the chair he had been sitting in. “Sherlock.”

“I’m fine, John.” Instead of responding, John went to the chair and moved it, pulling the power cord out from underneath. He turned back to look to Sherlock, whose gaze was on the chair, then to the cord. There was a moment of silence before the younger man said quietly, “Thank you.” He turned and continued making his way to the loo.

It was awkward to watch Sherlock struggle into the bathroom, but John did not interfere, allowing Sherlock the privacy he knew the young man was desperately craving. It pained him to watch Sherlock walk in an obvious attempt to ignore the discomfort it placed on his stitched arches, but when he made it to the door and closed himself in, John found himself releasing an audible sigh. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes trailing from the door to his mobile on the chair.

It had been twenty-four hours since Lestrade had sent an update to John, which either meant they had managed to track down every member of the cartel or that they had decided to keep him out of the loop. While the former would have been more comforting, the latter was understandable.

Lestrade had made an appearance a few times since Sherlock was conscious, something the young genius was sure to point out. While the first encounter was tense and awkward – Sherlock remaining silent while Lestrade fell into a slew of apologies for not locating him sooner, ending with an embrace that Sherlock awkwardly accepted and returned – the following visits were filled with Sherlock asking the detective inspector questions about the group, what they had found out and if they were certain there were no loose ends. Not wanting to divulge sensitive information, he was only told the basics that John had been privy to, much to Sherlock’s aggravation. Though he acted like Lestrade’s check-ins were annoying, it was still clear he was thankful he cared enough to even stop by.

What had surprised John, however, was Mycroft’s absence.

Mycroft had not seen his brother once since he became conscious, and it had the doctor asking himself too many questions – questions he was uncertain whether or not he wanted answered.

A loud thud followed by metal clacking on tile pulled his attention.

“Sherlock, are you all right?” John called as he got up and walked to the restroom door. “Sherlock?” he repeated when he failed to get a response.

“Fine! I’m fine,” Sherlock’s voice came through, albeit strained.

There was shuffling, followed by groaning and another thud.

John released a sigh and grabbed the handle. “Please be decent,” he muttered as he pulled the door open. “Christ, Sherlock,” he exhaled and approached his mate, who was on the floor, his forearm across the latrine from a failed attempt to stand up. John moved to help him, taking hold of his right arm and slinging it around his shoulders, grimacing at the blood seeping through Sherlock’s socks.

“I may have underestimated the extent of the damage,” Sherlock muttered as he was assisted to his feet. He stumbled against John as he reached for the pole, which had hit the adjacent wall. As John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and the other set against his chest to stabilize him, he found himself taking on most of the younger man’s weight, despite Sherlock making it seem like he was not as dependent as he was.

While he assisted Sherlock back to the bed, he could not help but focus on how Sherlock had continued to word things since his coherency. He had yet to acknowledge what had happened – referring to his abduction and abuse as “the incident”, his injuries as “the damage”, the recovery as “the issues.” It did not take the genius and wit of Sherlock Holmes to realize he was dissociating himself as a victim. Sherlock did not spend much time confined to a bed, forcing himself to stand less than twelve hours into what he referred to as a “sentence”, even with the doctors and nursing staff trying multiple times to get him to rest. When he was awake and going through the initial questions, they asked who his primary doctor was. There was no hesitation when he listed John, which had the nurse give John a quizzical look as the military doctor nodded.

There was a three-sentence conversation after the nurse had left, which John had simply asked, “So I’m your primary, now?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then.”

He would have a talk about with Sherlock later about how he would go about it and what he would expect from Sherlock as an official patient, even if Sherlock had only meant it to pass off the nurse and get her out of the room.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and John lifted his casted leg onto the mattress, allowing the younger man to position himself in a way he found comfortable. While he was getting situated, John called for a nurse to change the bandages wrapped around his mate’s feet. During the change, Sherlock had made several comments, which had the nurse smile awkwardly as John gave him looks to be quiet, that he should have known better than to put pressure on the freshly-stitched wounds.

After she left, Sherlock stared blankly at his feet, his mind elsewhere. John had set his hand on his mate’s knee, running his thumb over the skin as his brows furrowed up. Sherlock’s eyes had grown distant as his breath hastened. While his expression had not changed, his eyes had grown red along with the rest of his face.

“Sherlock?” When his mate did not respond, John moved to take Sherlock’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Sherlock, talk to me.” Still, Sherlock stayed silent; all that came from him was the quickening of breath and a knitted brow. John started calling his name as he reached to hold his face, turning the younger man’s head towards his own. Despite his unfocused expression, the fear and anxiety building up behind Sherlock’s eyes was apparent. John kept calling to him, Sherlock’s gaze not focusing. “Sherlock, what’s your brother’s name?”

It took a moment for the question to register, but John forced eye contact.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock responded in a tight voice.

John nodded with a sympathetic smile. “That’s right. What’s my name?”

There was a pause before Sherlock’s eyes glazed and he responded in a soft response, “John.” John nodded again, though Sherlock was still unfocused, his eyes appearing to shake. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock trailed out, his voice distant as he finally met John’s gaze.

John smiled and shook his head, rubbing Sherlock’s cheek. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Sherlock. We will make it through this – I will help you through this, all right? So stop apologising. It doesn’t suit you.”

Sherlock nodded, his gaze still distant. John smiled and leaned forward, brushing their lips together. The action had drawn Sherlock out from whatever hole he had managed to crawl into and his hand reached up to grab John’s. There was a moment’s pause between them as they stared into each other before Sherlock shut his eyes and reinitiated the kiss. It was awkward and unfocused, but, for next minute, they took solace in the comfort they had not realised they had become so accustomed to throughout the years.

* * *

It was after the hospital had finished serving their patients dinner when anyone else decided to visit. Sherlock was in the midst of picking through and complaining about the quality of food when there was a knock on the door. John’s attention was immediately drawn, while Sherlock paid no heed and continued to make his disdain known at his apparent restricted diet. According to him, there was no logical reason for him to be placed on a bland diet of boiled chicken and white rice; even with John explaining that due to the rectal trauma, he could only eat certain food, Sherlock continued to protest.

“It’s what the doctor ordered,” Lestrade said as he entered the room.

“Then let them eat it,” came the response. Sherlock turned his attention to the detective inspector. “Perhaps you would have it, then?” When Lestrade grimaced, Sherlock said, “Precisely,” and dropped the fork, leaning back on the bed. “Back yet again, I see. Well, let me fill you in on everything you’ve missed: the food is horrendous, the staff still refuses to let me out of this room, the so-called “doctors” are morons, my _friend_ is suggesting I use a catheter – I think that’s all of it, but John, please let me know if I’ve skipped over anything.”

He looked to Lestrade, who was now standing by the bed as he nodded while looking at the plate of food. He reached his hand to take a piece of the chicken to taste it. “It’s not bad, just…bland.” The look he received had him shift and purse his lips together. “At least you seem to be feeling better, all things considered.”

“All things considered,” Sherlock echoed.

An awkward silence fell across the room as Sherlock returned to prodding at the food with the fork and Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets. For the next few moments, the only noise filling the room was from the hall outside, with nurses passing and various conversations drifting in and out.

“Have you found anything else?” John asked Lestrade, breaking the tension.

“We managed to break into Hargett’s mobile.” The response was enough the garner Sherlock’s attention. “Apparently their ring runs deeper than we thought. Even some more…authoritative entities were involved.”

“Members of Scotland Yard? You don’t say,” Sherlock interjected as he finally brought a piece of the chicken to his lips. John’s brows were furrowed into curiosity while Lestrade’s look was sympathetic. Before anyone could ask how or why, Sherlock continued, “The knowledge they had of standard protocol and shift work, there had to have been at least one person involved in the internal affairs. I may have been incapacitated, but don’t doubt me for even a moment. Perhaps if you gave me more information, I could assist your investigation further.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Lestrade said sternly as he watched Sherlock take another bite. “Believe me, I wish I could. But Sherlock, you may not want to accept it, but you are a victim. And a victim cannot be involved in an investigation.”

“I appreciate the reminder,” Sherlock’s response was sharp as he made eye contact with Lestrade. It did not last long as Lestrade’s gaze was filled with guilt, causing Sherlock to pull his attention away, focusing back on the tray of food. “I assume you’ve been consulting my brother, at the very least. Even if my first-hand knowledge would be more valuable.”

Both John and Lestrade shared a look of sympathetic aggravation. Lestrade released a sigh. Mycroft’s absence had clearly not gone unnoticed by the young detective and it was suspected it weighed more on him than he let on, no matter how much he allowed his impassive demeanour to say otherwise. A few times since he was forced to work alongside Mycroft Holmes for this job, Lestrade had made the comment that he should visit his younger brother. He had even made it a point to alert Mycroft whenever he intended to stop by the hospital, a subtle yet clear hint for Mycroft to join him.

It was either dismissed or ignored altogether.

“Anyway, I just wanted to stop by, check in, make sure you were doing all right,” the detective inspector said as he took a step back towards the door, avoiding Sherlock’s comment.

“I appreciate your concern,” Sherlock said blandly as he took another bite.

“Sherlock, just…take care of yourself, all right.”

With that, Sherlock waved him off. He and John made eye contact, whose eyebrows were furrowed upwards, though he would say nothing, backing his best mate. Still, there was a silent agreement between them, for John to watch him and ensure his health, as long as Lestrade held his end of the bargain of keeping John in the loop of the takedown of the Cielo Diablos. With another sigh, Lestrade was gone and the two of them were alone once more.

“He means well,” John said to Sherlock shrugging and taking another bite.

“It’s annoying.”

John said nothing, only nodded as Sherlock raised the fork again.

He could not help but smile, holding back a chuckle as he wondered if even Sherlock realized what he was doing. By trying to avoid talking to Lestrade, he had eaten over half of the meal he had spent the better half of an hour complaining about. It was the most he had eaten since he had come around, much to the dismay of not just John, but the nurses who had been assigned to his room. They were threatening to feed him through an IV if he kept refusing his meals. If being annoyed was what had him eating, John had half-a-mind to call Lestrade back in; but it was forgone when Sherlock finally put the fork down and pushed away what little was left.

When a member of the kitchen staff performed rounds to collect trays, she had made the comment that Sherlock was a good patient for actually eating his restricted diet, which had John refrain from telling her the meal was Sherlock’s last chance before the staff fed him through a needle. Sherlock was less willing to bite back his remark of asking for dessert since he “ate his dinner like a good boy.” She gave an unimpressed look before leaving the room. Once she was gone, both he and John started snickering like children.

It was not long before John took out his laptop. The first page to pop up was a news headline reporting more on the drug trafficking ring, listing more members. The same three pictures were at the top of the article of Francis Bellman, Dreln Hargett and Emilia Hernandez. Seeing the face of the American caused a flare of anger in John’s chest. Sherlock had gone quiet and when John glanced at him, his mate’s eyes were trained on the same photo, jaw taught and fist clenched as tight as he was able. Focusing back on the laptop, he scrolled down, getting the images off the screen as he set his other hand on Sherlock’s, grounding him. Sherlock commented on the article leaving out information about members of Scotland Yard having been discovered in the ranks, seeming to ignore the contact, but John was acutely aware of his fist relaxing.

A nurse had come to administer his next round of antibiotics under John’s ever-watchful supervision while they were arguing about finding a case to work on. John was rolling his eyes while Sherlock was going on about having something to occupy his mind. As the nurse was pressing the syringe needle into the injection point, John was asking if Sherlock planned to wheel himself around a crime scene, and that it would be nigh impossible for Lestrade to even consider asking for his assistance within the near future. The other was in the middle of retorting as the medications took over and he trailed off, his eyelids fluttering shut as his words began slurring. Moments later, his breathing had become even and he sank into the mattress. The nurse gave John a knowing smile, which he returned.

No longer having to worry about causing Sherlock to have another panic attack, John returned his attention to following the news articles on the takedown. Not as much was coming out, the bulk having been the initial twenty-four hours. There was a small headline that caught his eye:

_Detective Sherlock Holmes in Hospital After Cartel Abduction_.

Though he thought it was the same article from Sherlock’s initial recovery, he recalled that article did not mention the Cielo Diablos’ cartel and the abduction had been mere speculation. With one more glance to ensure the younger man was asleep, he clicked the link. The headlining image was of his most notorious image of him in the hat he detested and the collar of his trench turned upwards, next to an image of middle-aged uniformed officer. The very first sentence had a possessive heat crawl across his chest.

_The rumours surrounding the notorious London Detective Sherlock Holmes have been confirmed. Speculations began arising due to Sherlock’s absence in helping Scotland Yard’s investigation into the drug cartel known as the Cielo Diablos. Scotland Yard’s own Officer Thomas Vanderbilt was taken into custody this evening after admitting to being involved in the planned abduction of Sherlock Holmes, who was found due to the endless efforts of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan._

_Vanderbilt came under investigation when large amounts of cocaine and heroin were uncovered in his flat by landlord Ashland McMahon and reported to police. He is currently being charged with possession and attempt to distribute, falsifying official reports and aiding and abetting the kidnapping of an official consultant._

At the very end of the article was written the hospital Sherlock was being housed in with the line “and we wish him a quick recovery.” He hung on that last line, reading it over and over until the words meant nothing.

Sherlock would force himself to try and recover quickly, which would have more lasting damage than if he would allow himself to experience the full and complete stages. Then again, who was John to judge? He was as equally stubborn when it came down to it.

During the night, there was a changing of the guard. An officer from Scotland Yard had come into the room to let them know he would be taking over for the other, who John had only remembered seeing once that day when he went to the cafeteria to get his own meal. John thanked him, expecting him to leave and wander the halls and talk to the staff like the others had done. Instead, he came into the room and started conversation. After fielding the typical small talk questions, the officer apologised, catching him off guard.

“I was one of the responders that night.”

“Oh.” John pursed his lips together as the officer looked at Sherlock.

“We honestly weren’t expecting him to be alive. Lestrade was, though. You want to talk about a driven man,” he gave a light laugh.

“Very much so.” He remembered getting into several arguments with both Lestrade and Donovan during Sherlock’s disappearance, guilt in his stomach like a rock. Handling victims and victim families was what the man excelled at, and it was not like he did not know John was getting upset over the situation, not himself.

 “If you don’t mind my ask, who was the man in the suit?” the officer’s question cut his thoughts.

John gave him a quizzical look. “Man in the suit?”

His reaction garnered the same look as a response. “When Sanders and I arrested Dreln Hargett, there was a man in a suit. Seemed a bit more…official than the lot of us.”

John breathed out a laugh. He had not even realized Mycroft was there. Then again, of course he had to have been. He was right on their heels on the ride to the hospital. “Mycroft.”

The officer took a minute to register the name before he recognised it. He raised his brows as he nodded. “That explains it,” he muttered garnering an odd look. “Well, I’ll be on shift until the morning when Clarke relieves me, so don’t worry ‘bout anything.”

“Thank you,” John said as he left the room.

John could here his shoes click on the tile down the hall. He heard them stop at what he suspected was the Nurse’s Station and turned his attention back to his laptop. It did not stay on it very long when he heard his mate speak.

“Call Lestrade and tell him to stop sending me nannies,” he said, eyes still closed.

“I’ll get on that when you prove you don’t need one.” Sherlock scoffed and rolled his head to look at John. “Feigning sleep doesn’t really help your point.”

Sherlock raised his brows. “You knew?”

John closed his laptop and turned to face him. “I heard your breathing pattern change while he was asking me about my Service. You’re getting rusty.” He smirked at Sherlock’s dismissal. He still had not told Sherlock the extra protection had come from Donovan, knowing neither he nor whichever officer took over would ever hear the end of it. “Might as well go back to sleep. It’s past ten.”

For a moment, Sherlock shut his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the mattress. “Why are you still here?” he asked without opening his eyes. As though expecting the curious look John was giving him, he followed up with, “You’ve been here for two days. I may be stuck here, but there’s no reason you should still be here.”

John found himself smiling. “If it’s the smell that bothers you, I’ll have a bath in the morning; but, Sherlock, you’re smelling much worse, and I very highly doubt you’ll allow a sponge bath.”

At the comment, Sherlock cracked his eyes open, sending what glare he could. Seeing John smirking, he turned his head away. “Not with you present. That’s certain.”

As a smile cracked its way across Sherlock’s face, John could not help but laugh. “I could always help.” Sherlock turned back to face him, both of their eyes gleaming as they made contact. Sherlock was the first to break, laughing discreetly before John broke and the two wound up in a fit of mirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't specify, but something has happened in my personal life to the point I've gone from writing to reading. 
> 
> When things happen, I read a lot.   
> It helps me escape my reality into someone else's. 
> 
> Since writing the previous chapter,   
> I've read four of former-FBI Profiler John Douglas' books, two of the Asylum books and several of my old college textbooks. 
> 
> That being said, trying to NOT allow those reads to effect my writings has been insanely difficult - when my muse is actually going. I still feel like I let some of that out in this chapter, but because of that, I was much more critical of what I was writing. 
> 
> I'm so sorry if some of that bled over.


	16. Brother Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old memories come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll with this~  
> Don't kill me, yet.   
> If you do, I can't finish. (> v <)

**16  
Brother Mine**

The room smelled stale and still. The bed centred against the far wall was still made, its sheets and quilt hardly moved. There was a desk pressed against the right wall, still neat and tidy with a few university texts stacked on a ring of notebooks. A young Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, creasing the quilt as he flipped through the thin pages of one of the textbooks. There was the sound of shuffling outside of the bedroom door. The sixteen-year-old genius had gone through a few more pages as the doorknob turned and the wooden door opened.

Sloppy footsteps entered the room as the door was closed, barely drawing Sherlock’s attention.

“Sherlock, get out,” twenty-three-year-old Mycroft slurred, catching himself on the footboard of the bed.

Sherlock glanced to him briefly and went back to the text on economics, eyes darting from word to word. “You’re home early. Couldn’t sew your seeds?” he asked with a nonchalant expression as Mycroft sent a glare. “So primitive. I expected more from you.” He shut the text and turned to face his brother.

Mycroft’s eyes were swimming while he aimed for a disapproving glare that failed as he had to maintain his balance by keeping a grip on the footboard. “I am not in the mood to deal with you. Get out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slammed the textbook shut. He set it on the bedside table. However, instead of getting up, he fell backwards on the bed, his hands over his head as he stared at the ceiling. He could hear Mycroft’s sigh of frustration. “Coitus is so meaningless, though. It does nothing other than satisfy the most basic desires of the human body. With a sophisticated enough mind, sex is useless and gives you nothing. Only more evidence that I’m more intelligent than you.”

He shrugged while Mycroft groaned.

“Sherlock, what are you on?”

“Something to help me think.” It was the only answer Mycroft needed to know his brother was on a cocaine high. “Though it still doesn’t help me understand human behaviour.”

Mycroft staggered to the door and opened it, a hint which Sherlock blatantly ignored. “That would because you are a child, dear brother. It is beyond you.”

Sherlock shot him a glare before rolling off the bed. He crossed the room to stand in front of Mycroft. Taking the door, he slammed it shut and crossed his arms across his chest. Mycroft visibly tensed. Even in his drunken state, he was standing straighter and eyeing his younger brother.

“If that’s the case, then show me. Show me what I’m missing out on,” Sherlock said the last bit with such contrivance, it took all of Mycroft’s self-control to refrain from knocking sense into him. “Or are you just going to mope about because you couldn’t screw something with a hole? Not that I blame you,” he commented with an air of arrogance. “With your lesser knowledge and capacity, it was only expected that your more primitive desires would draw you back from—”

He was cut off but Mycroft grabbing his shirt collar and shoving him against the closed door.

“You don’t know what you’re on about,” Mycroft’s voice was low and threatening.

Sherlock scoffed, not at all phased by his brother’s actions. Whether it was the high or the fact that it was Mycroft of all people was left to be determined. “Still know more than you, obviously.”

At the comment, Mycroft reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s groin. “Is this what you want to know about?!” he said with a ferocity Sherlock had only heard a few times before. The contact immediately caused Sherlock to go rigid and his arrogant demeanour to melt away, the colour draining from his face. “You’re so determined to know everything, after all!” He pinned Sherlock against the door, his knee between his thighs and his hands moving downwards to undo the belt to his brother’s trousers.

Sherlock’s hands were on his arms and shoulders, trying to push him off, falling into apologies and calling for his brother to stop.

* * *

The scents of sausage and eggs filtered through the halls and rooms the moment a trolley carrying the breakfast trays for the various patients arrived on the floor. John was talking to a nurse at the nurse’s station, trying to get information on when Sherlock would be discharged. All they would tell him was that he would have to wait for the doctor. Even with John now being listed as Sherlock’s primary physician, they refused to divulge. He tapped his fingers on the counter before sighing and dismissing himself back to the room.

The trolley was two doors from Sherlock’s room when John walked in, the smell causing his stomach to rumble. He would have to go to the cafeteria to get food for himself after ensuring his mate would eat his own breakfast.

When he came into the room, Sherlock was still asleep. At first glance, everything seemed normal and in place. The machine was beeping every second that monitored his heartrate, and the oxygen was running through the nasal cannula that the other had stopped using when he first regained consciousness. However, as he drew closer, he could see Sherlock’s brow furrowed and sweat across his forehead. The young genius looked as though he was in pain, his breath catching before coming out fast. The heartrate monitor began speeding up, the lines fast and irregular. Sherlock turned onto his side, body curling in on itself. He started panting, the machines going haywire.

John was next to him, hand on his shoulder as he shook him.

“Sherlock, wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” he said as he shook him again. He set his other hand on the side of Sherlock’s head and ran it through his matted hair. It was the reminder the young man was still in desperate need of a bath.

A small noise escaped from Sherlock’s throat, one which could have been mistaken as a whine. It was followed by, “…stop….”

John shook him a bit harder and called his name again. On the third attempt, Sherlock’s eyelids flickered. The creases eased from his expression. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his back. John leaned back and tried to wipe away the concerned look that he knew he was wearing.

“Breakfast already?” Sherlock asked still full of sleep.

“A right breakfast, it seems.” Sherlock nodded as he sank into the pillow. “One you’ll have or you’ll be in hospital for another day,” John said, not a threat, but a fact.

A fact that had the younger man groan.

He was about to respond when the staff came in with a tray in hand. They crossed the room and set the tray on the rollaway table that sat at the foot of the bed. Pushing the table over the bed and to the patient’s lap, they lifted the lid. Instead of the sausage and eggs that permeated through the halls, the tray held a steamed banana, yogurt and two soft cooked eggs. Even John gave a look of sympathy as Sherlock stared down at the bland meal. The doctor thanked the staff as they left the room, the wheels of the trolley squeaking to the next room.

“Is the option to obtain my nutritional needs through an intravenous needle still available?”

John frowned.

“They’ll keep you, you know,” John said in regard to the doctors and staff keeping the detective in hospital until they could be assured he would be self-sustainable after he left their care.

Sherlock made a low noise in his throat. He reached for one of the eggs, eyeing it with suspicion before taking a bite. While he scowled, John smirked. Sherlock took a few bites of the food presented as footsteps echoed outside in the halls from passing nurses and patient visitors.

He was eyeing the steamed fruit when hard footsteps came to a stop outside of the door to the room.

“I figured my care had come from you,” Sherlock said without looking up as he tossed the banana back on the tray, it making a wet _plop_ as it made contact.

“After the incident involving the Rocephin, extra precaution was necessary,” Mycroft said as he entered the room approached the bed, which garnered a knitted brow from his sibling. John felt a pang of guilt in his chest at the reminder he had not told Sherlock of the threat on his life while he was unconscious. However, at the same time, realising that Mycroft had been made aware ignited a fire of anger that overrode the guilt. “Doctor Watson.”

John nodded his acknowledgement, though there was a hidden annoyance at being left out.

How had he not realized the people assigned to Sherlock’s room seemed different – how they carried themselves? how they spoke? how they seemed to be more apt to deal with Sherlock’s personality than most normal people? Mycroft’s print was over everything and John had still been blind until it was staring him in the face.

Either way, it still did not excuse his absence and avoidance of his brother for the past three days. He had not seen his brother even once since he gained coherency and it took his entire being to not make that frustration vocalised.

“John,” Sherlock said, drawing his attention. “Would you give us a moment?” Though it was a request, it was said as a statement.

Jaw taught, John nodded, making eye contact with Mycroft. “Of course.” The look he gave was of a warning.

Mycroft and Sherlock both watched as John left the room, his shoes fading down the hall. Both of them could hear them stop near the Nurse’s Station, though short, most likely at the dispensary for instant coffee and tea. Sherlock went back to his meal to the other egg.

“I suspect you know when they’ll release me from my shackles,” Sherlock asked as he bit into it, making a face as though he were a child.

“Later this morning, if you prove you don’t require additional supervision,” he said in reference to his brother dropping the egg.

Sherlock moved his mouth in a mocking mimicry. It seemed to work, however, and he picked it back up. It was gone in two bites, the eldest saying nothing until his brother acted appropriately. Sherlock gave him a condescending look when he picked up the yogurt. Mycroft raised his brows, his lips creasing in approval at their corners. After a few minutes, Mycroft broke the silence.

“Expect and accept top surveillance until you’re able-bodied,” Mycroft said, eyebrows raising as Sherlock snorted in response. The younger man tossed the now-empty container of yogurt onto the tray, making it a point to ignore the banana that had since gone cold. “Perhaps even longer, if need be.”

It was in clear reference to the Cielo Diablos.

Knowing Mycroft, his brother fully intended to keep Sherlock under surveillance until the last of their ranks had fallen throughout the United Kingdom. At the thought, the memory of being chained in the basement flashed across his mind before an old memory of he and Mycroft rose to the surface.

The air quickly grew quiet between them with the sounds of the hospital beyond the door. Nurses could be heard talking to each other while the beeping of medical equipment was heard in the background with the squeaking of doors and shoes on tile. Sensing a query urging against the mind of his younger brother, Mycroft gave Sherlock a curious look.

Inhaling, Sherlock exhaled, his gaze trailing to the government official beside him.

“Mycroft,” he started, which instantly had Mycroft stand straighter, his brother having yet to call him by name. “Do you recall the night you came home from university?” He did not need to specify the date, Mycroft knowing what Sherlock was referencing.

Mycroft paused before he nodded. Sherlock released a breath, as though laughing at the realisation his brother had not been passed the point of complete inebriation that night.

Once again silence encompassed them.

Sherlock’s eyes were trained down at the tray while Mycroft watched him, anticipating what was to come.

It was what Sherlock asked that broke his guard.

“Do you absolve me?” Sherlock asked as he looked to his older brother.

Despite his impassive facial expression, the fear behind his eyes was apparent, uncertain of the response. The question caused Mycroft’s heart to drop to his bowels, his own eyes threatening an ill-gotten emotion. He could still remember shoving Sherlock against the wall, how much smaller his little brother had felt beneath him at the time, the curiosity and stubborn determination in his eyes. That same stubbornness melting into panic and fear as Mycroft released all his anger and pent up frustration.

He could still hear his voice echoing in his mind – Sherlock’s young voice crying and begging for him to stop.

_“You were right! I’m sorry – stop!”_

It had been so long ago, yet it still burned unyielding in his memory.

Clenching his jaw, he slowly spoke, “Sherlock…there is nothing to absolve you from – you did nothing wrong.”

He could feel his nasal passages burn when he saw the confused expression written on his younger brother’s features, something he had not seen since they were younger; and something that made his own guilt sink to his chest. He took the few steps to stand next to the bed, his hand reaching out subconsciously to touch his brother’s face. The moment his fingers made contact with Sherlock’s cheek, the young detective flinched. Even with Sherlock’s typically stoic features, there was a fear of ambiguity behind his eyes at his brother’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

“Nothing that night was your fault, Sherlock, and I never should have allowed you to believe anything otherwise.” Taking in a breath at the mirage of emotions between them both, he brought his hand back. “You were young and I took advantage of your vulnerability. The accountability was mine – it always has been.”

Sherlock fell silent, brows creasing as his eyes searched his brother’s face, studying and analysing every minute change in expression and posture. Being under his own brother’s questioning scrutiny, Mycroft felt himself fall apart. In some way, he always hoped that if the memory was never mentioned, it would somehow fade into the distance. It had been a silly thought. Neither of their brains ever allowing something like that to disappear – to becoming nothing more than a flickering shadow.

He watched as Sherlock’s ever-prying eyes had gone from focused to unfocused, his mind losing itself in the memory, reanalysing it from various perspectives.

“I initiated the encounter,” he said with certainty.

“You were being you, Sherlock.” The response had Sherlock roll his eyes. “An immature twat who thought he knew the inner-workings of the world, while having no experience to have full comprehension.” There was a pause between them, Mycroft watching as his brother’s jaw tensed to refrain from making a comment. Mycroft inhaled and gripped the handle to his umbrella. “But your actions did not excuse mine. The actions I performed that night went beyond any and every boundary – there is no pardon for what I did. And I hope that, in time, you could forgive me…for everything.”

Sherlock’s brows knitted together before he pulled his head to face Mycroft. They made eye contact and, for the first time since Sherlock could remember, he saw a sympathetic gaze staring back at him, eyes red on a borderline.


End file.
